T  H  E 
CART  I  VF 

"By  Hugh  Watpoia 


F.y    i.mrcis- 

ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


IT  is  a  matter  of 
novel  by  Hugh  Wj 
heels  of  "Jeremy' 
pole's  return  to  Engl i:  $ 

story  was  begun  in  1  F 

the  most  absorbing  si  $ 

evidence  that  the  Russian  books  were  a  literary  ex- 
cursion, while  the  life  and  manners  of  his  own 
people  are  the  abiding  materials  of  his  art. 

Maggie  Cardinal  and  Martin  Warlock — they  were  the  captives, 
two  beings  who  felt  themselves  enthralled  by  the  intense  relig- 
ious consciousness  of  a  narrow  sect,  the  Kingscote  Brethren. 
What  Aunt  Ann  was  to  Maggie,  his  father,  the  minister,  was  to 
Martin— the  symbol  of  a  mysterious  force  against  which  they 
revolted  but  which  they  felt,  since  it  had  every  kind  of  hold  over 
them,  was  always  lying  in  wait  for  them  and  would  one  day,  in 
spite  of  their  revolt,  claim  them  irrevocably  for  itself. 

Mr.  Walpole  has  made  a  truly  fine  study  of  the  religious  atmosphere  and 
Society  in  which  his  story  is  mainly  laid,  and  one  can  unreservedly  praise 
his  masterly  power  of  delineation.  The  little  chapel  behind  Garrick  Street 
with  its  hissing  gas,  its  strident  harmonium,  and  its  damp  emanations,  most 
vividly  lives  before  the  reader.  There  is  nothing  crude  and  cheap  about  it, 
nothing  in  the  least  to  laugh  at;  for  Mr.  Walpole  has  seen  into  queer,  crook- 
ed but  ecstatic  souls,  and  his  glance  is  compassionately  understanding. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/captivesnovelinfOOwalpiala 


THE   RISING  CITY:  III 


THE   CAPTIVES 
HUGH   WALPOLE 


BOOKS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

NOVELS 

THE  WOODEN   HORSE 

THE  GODS  AND   MR.  PERRIN 

THE  GREEN   MIRROR 

THE  DARK  FOREST 

THE  SECRET  CITY 

THE  CAPTIVES 

ROMANCES 

MARADICK   AT   FORTY 

THE   PRELUDE   TO   ADVENTURE 

FORTITUDE 

THE   DUCHESS    OF   WREXE 


SHORT  STORIES 

THE   GOLDEN   SCARECROW 
JEREMY 

PORTRAITS   OF   TnE   PERIOD 
(In  Preparation) 

BELLES-LETTERS 

JOSEPH  CONRAD  :  A  CRITICAL  STUDY 


THE  CAPTIVES 

A   NOVEL   IN   FOUR   PARTS 


BY 
HUGH   WALPOLE 

AUTHOR  OF  "JEREMY,"   "THE  SECRET  CITY." 
•'THE  GREEN  MIRROR,"  ETC. 


NEW  Xy  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1920 
BY    GEORGE    H.     DOHAN    COMPANY 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


College 
Library 

PR." 

\NKoOLD 

\<\zo 


TO 

ARNOLD  BENNETT 

WITH  DEEP  AFFECTION 


1060363 


"  I  confess  that  I  do  not  see  why  the  very  existence 
of  an  invisible  world  may  not  in  part  depend  on  the 
personal  response  which  any  of  us  may  make  to  the 
religious  appeal.  God  Himself,  in  short,  may  draw 
vital  strength  and  increase  of  very  being  from  our 
fidelity.  For  my  own  part  I  do  not  know  what  the 
sweat  and  blood  and  tragedy  of  this  life  mean,  if  they 
mean  anything  short  of  this.  If  this  life  be  not  a  real 
■fight,  in  which  something  is  eternally  gained  for  the 
universe  by  success,  it  is  no  better  than  a  game  of  pri- 
vate theatricals  from  which  one  may  withdraw  at  will. 
But  it  feels  like  a  real  fight — as  if  there  were  some- 
thing really  wild  in  the  universe  which  we,  with  all 
our  idealities  and  faithlessness,  are  needed  to  redeem; 
and  first  of  all  to  redeem  our  own  hearts  from 
atheisms  and  fears.  ..." 

William  James. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I:  BEGINNING  OF  THE  JOURNEY 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I    Death  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Cardinal  ....  13 

II    Aunt  Anne 30 

III  The  London  House 49 

IV  The  Chapel 60 

PART  II:  THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 

I    The  Warlocks 79 

II    Expectation 100 

III  Maggie  and  Martin 120 

IV  Mr.  Crashaw 136 

V    The  Choice 154 

VI    The  Prophet  in  His  Own  Home 171 

VII    The  Outside  World 185 

VIII    Paradise 205 

IX    The  Inside  Saints 228 

X    The  Prophet 249 

XI    The  Chariot  of  Fire 259 

PART  III:  THE  WITCH 

I    The  Three  Visits 273 

II    Plunge  Into  the  Other  Half 288 

III  Skeaton-on-Sea 308 

IV  Grace 321 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

V  The  Battle  of  Skeaton:  First  Year  ....  332 

VI  The  Battle  of  Skeaton:  Second  Year      .       .       .  350 

VII  Death  of  Aunt  Anne 368 

VIII  Death  of  Uncle  Mathew 382 

IX  Soul  of  Paul 395 

X  The  Revival 407 


PART  IV:  THE  JOURNEY  HOME  AGAIN 

I    The  Dark  Room 427 

II    Hobgoblins 439 

III    The  Triumph  of  Life 453 


PART  I 
BEGINNING  OF  THE  JOURNEY 


CHAPTER  I 

DEATH    OP    THE    BEV.   CHARLES    CARDINAL 

DEATH  leapt  upon  the  Rev.  Charles  Cardinal,  Rector  of  St. 
Dreots  in  South  Glebeshire,  at  the  moment  that  he  bent 
down  towards  the  second  long  drawer  of  his  washhand-stand ;  he 
bent  down  to  find  a  clean  collar.  It  is  in  its  way  a  symbol  of  his 
whole  life,  that  death  claimed  him  before  he  could  find  one. 

At  one  moment  his  mind  was  intent  upon  his  collar ;  at  the  next 
he  was  stricken  with  a  wild  surmise,  a  terror  that  even  at  that 
instant  he  would  persuade  himself  was  exaggerated.  He  saw 
before  his  clouding  eyes  a  black  pit.  A  strong  hand  striking  him 
in  the  middle  of  his  back  flung  him  contemptuously  forward  into 
it;  a  gasping  cry  of  protest  and  all  was  over.  Had  time  been 
permitted  him  he  would  have  stretched  out  a  hand  towards  the 
shabby  black  box  that,  true  to  all  miserly  convention,  occupied  the 
space  beneath  his  bed.  Time  was  not  allowed  him.  He  might  take 
with  him  into  the  darkness  neither  money  nor  clean  clothing. 

He  had  been  told  on  many  occasions  about  his  heart,  that  he 
must  not  excite  nor  strain  it.  He  allowed  that  to  pass  as  he 
allowed  many  other  things  because  his  imagination  was  fixed  upon 
one  ambition,  and  one  alone.  He  had  made,  upon  this  last  and 
fatal  occasion,  haste  to  find  his  collar  because  the  bell  had  begun 
its  Evensong  clatter  and  he  did  not  wish  to-night  to  be  late.  The 
bell  continued  to  ring  and  he  lay  his  broad  widespread  length  upon 
the  floor.    He  was  a  large  and  dirty  man. 

The  shabby  old  house  was  occupied  with  its  customary  life. 
Down  in  the  kitchen  Ellen  the  cook  was  snatching  a  moment  from 
her  labours  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea.  She  sat  at  the  deal  table,  her 
full  bosom  pressed  by  the  boards,  her  saucer  balanced  on  her  hand ; 
she  blew,  with  little  heaving  pants,  at  her  tea  to  cool  it.  Her 
thoughts  were  with  a  new  hat  and  some  red  roses  with  which  she 
would  trim  it;  she  looked  out  with  little  shivers  of  content  at  the 
falling  winter's  dusk:  Anne  the  kitchen-maid  scoured  the 
pans;  her  bony  frame  seemed  to  rattle  as  she  scrubbed  with  her 
red  hands ;  she  was  happy  because  she  was  hungry  and  there  would 
be  a  beef-steak  pudding  for  dinner.  She  sang  to  herself  as  she 
worked. 

13 


14  THE  CAPTIVES 

Upstairs  in  the  dining-room  Maggie  Cardinal,  the  only  child 
of  the  Kev.  Charles,  sat  sewing.  She  heard  the  jangling  of  the 
church  bell;  she  heard  also,  suddenly,  with  a  surprise  that  made 
her  heart  beat  for  a  moment  with  furious  leaps,  a  tapping  on  the 
window-pane.  Then  directly  after  that  she  fancied  that  there  came 
from  her  father's  room  above  the  thud  of  some  sudden  fall  or 
collapse.  She  listened.  The  bell  swallowed  all  other  noise.  She 
thought  that  she  had  been  mistaken,  but  the  tapping  at  the  window 
began  again,  now  insistent;  the  church  bell  suddenly  stopped  and 
in  the  silence  that  followed  one  could  hear  the  slight  creak  of  some 
bough  driven  by  the  sea-wind  against  the  wall. 

The  curtains  were  not  drawn  and  where  the  curve  of  the  hill 
fell  away  the  sky  was  faintly  yellow;  some  cold  stars  like  points 
of  ice  pierced  the  higher  blue;  carelessly,  as  though  with  studied 
indifference,  flakes  of  snow  fell,  turning  grey  against  the  lamp-lit 
windows,  then  vanishing  utterly.  Maggie,  going  to  the  window, 
saw  a  dark  shapeless  figure  beyond  the  glass.  For  an  instant  she 
was  invaded  by  the  terror  of  her  surprised  loneliness,  then  she 
remembered  her  father  and  the  warm  kitchen,  then  realised  that 
this  figure  in  the  dark  must  be  her  Uncle  Mathew. 

She  went  out  into  the  hall,  pushed  back  the  stiff,  clumsy  handle 
of  the  door,  and  stepped  on  to  the  gravel  path.  She  called  out, 
laughing : 

"  Come  in !    You  frightened  me  out  of  my  life." 

As  he  came  towards  her  she  felt  the  mingled  kindness  and  irrita- 
tion that  he  always  roused  in  her.  He  stood  in  the  light  of  the 
hall  lamp,  a  fat  man,  a  soft  hat  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  a 
bag  in  one  hand.  His  face  was  weak  and  good-tempered,  his  eyes 
had  once  been  fine  but  now  they  were  dim  and  blurred;  there  were 
dimples  in  his  fat  cheeks;  he  wore  on  his  upper  lip  a  ragged  and 
untidy  moustache  and  he  had  two  indeterminate  chins.  His  ex- 
pression was  mild,  kindly,  now  a  little  ashamed,  now  greatly  in- 
dignant. It  was  a  pity,  as  he  often  said,  that  he  had  not  more 
control  over  his  feelings.  Maggie  saw  at  once  that  he  was,  as 
usual,  a  little  drunk. 

"  Well,"  she  said.  "  Come  in,  Uncle.  Father  is  in  church,  I 
think,"  she  added. 

Uncle  Mathew  stepped  with  careful  deliberation  into  the  hall, 
put  his  bag  on  a  chair,  and  began  a  long,  rambling  explanation. 

"You  know,  Maggie,  that  I  would  have  sent  you  a  post  card  if 
I  had  had  an  idea,  but,  upon  my  soul,  there  I  was  suddenly  in 
Drymouth  on  important  business.  I  thought  to  myself  on  waking 
this  morning — I  took  a  room  at  the  '  Three  Tuns ' — '  Why,  there 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL  15 

are  Charles  and  Maggie  whom  I  haven't  seen  for  an  age.'  I'd 
have  sent  you  a  telegram  but  the  truth  is,  my  dear,  that  I  didn't 
want  to  spend  a  penny  more  than  I  must.  Things  haven't  been 
going  so  well  with  me  of  late.  It's  a  long  story.  I  want  your 
father's  advice.  I've  had  the  worst  of  luck  and  I  could  tell  you 
one  or  two  things  that  would  simply  surprise  you — but  anyway, 
there  it  is.  Just  for  a  night  I'm  sure  you  won't  mind.  To-morrow 
or  the  day  after  I  must  be  back  in  town  or  this  thing  will  slip 
right  through  my  fingers.  These  days  one  must  be  awake  or  one's 
simply  nowhere." 

He  paused  and  nodded  his  head  very  solemnly  at  her,  looking, 
as  he  did  so,  serious  and  important. 

It  was  thus  that  he  always  appeared,  "  for  one  night  only,"  but 
staying  for  weeks  and  weeks  in  spite  of  the  indignant  protests  of 
his  brother  Charles  who  had  never  liked  him  and  grudged  the 
expense  of  his  visits.  Maggie  herself  took  his  appearance  as  she 
did  everything  else  in  her  life  with  good-tempered  philosophy. 
She  had  an  affection  for  her  uncle;  she  wished  that  he  did  not 
drink  so  much,  but  had  he  made  a  success  of  life  she  would  not 
have  cared  for  him  as  she  did.  After  all  every  one  had  their 
weaknesses.  .   .   . 

She  steered  her  uncle  into  the  dining-room  and  placed  him  on 
a  chair  beside  the  fire.  In  all  his  movements  he  attempted 
restraints  and  dignity  because  he  knew  that  he  was  drunk  but 
hoped  that  his  niece,  in  spite  of  her  long  experience  of  him,  would 
not  perceive  it.  At  the  same  time  he  knew  that  she  did  perceive 
it  and  would  perhaps  scold  him  about  it.  This  made  him  a  little 
indignant  because,  after  all,  he  had  only  taken  the  tiniest  drop 
— one  drop  at  Drymouth,  another  at  Liskane  station,  and  another 
at  "  The  Hearty  Cow  "  at  Clinton  St.  Mary,  just  before  his  start 
on  his  cold  lonely  walk  to  St.  Dreot's.  He  hoped  that  he  would 
prevent  her  criticism  by  his  easy  pleasant  talk,  so  on  he  chattered. 

She  sat  down  near  him  and  continuing  to  sew  smiled  at  him, 
wondered  what  there  was  for  dinner  and  the  kind  of  mood  that 
her  father  would  be  in  when  he  found  his  dear  brother  here. 

Maggie  Cardinal,  at  this  time,  was  nineteen  years  of  age.  She 
was  neither  handsome  nor  distinguished,  plain  indeed,  although  her 
mild,  good-natured  eyes  had  in  their  light  a  quality  of  vitality  and 
interest  that  gave  her  personality;  her  figure  was  thick  and  square 
— she  would  be  probably  stout  one  day.  She  moved  like  a  man. 
Behind  the  mildness  of  her  eyes  there  was  much  character  and 
resolve  in  her  carriage,  in  the  strong  neck,  the  firm  breasts,  the 
mouth  resolute  and  determined.    She  had  now  the  fine  expectation 


16  THE  CAPTIVES 

of  her  youth,  her  health,  her  optimism,  her  ignorance  of  the  world. 
When  these  things  left  her  she  would  perhaps  be  a  yet  plainer 
woman.  In  her  dress  she  was  not  clever.  Her  clothes  were  ugly 
with  the  coarse  drab  grey  of  their  material  and  the  unskilful  work- 
manship that  had  created  them.  And  yet  there  would  be  some 
souls  who  would  see  in  her  health,  her  youth,  the  kind  sympathy 
of  her  eyes  and  mouth,  the  high  nobility  of  her  forehead  from 
which  her  hair  was  brushed  back,  an  attraction  that  might  hold 
them  more  deeply  than  an  obvious  beauty. 

Uncle  Mathew  although  he  was  a  silly  man  was  one  of  these 
perceptive  souls,  and  had  he  not  been  compelled  by  his  circum- 
stances to  think  continually  about  himself,  would  have  loved  his 
niece  very  dearly.  As  it  was,  he  thought  her  a  fine  girl  when  he 
thought  of  her  at  all,  and  wished  her  more  success  in  life  than 
her  "  poor  old  uncle "  had  had.  He  looked  at  her  now  across  the 
fireplace  with  satisfaction.  She  was  something  sure  and  pleasant 
in  a  world  that  swayed  and  was  uncertain.  He  was  drunk  enough 
to  feel  happy  so  long  as  he  was  not  scolded.  He  dreaded  the 
moment  when  his  brother  Charles  would  appear,  and  he  strove 
to  arrange  in  his  mind  the  wise  and  unanswerable  word  with  which 
he  would  defend  himself,  but  his  thoughts  slipped  just  as  the  fire- 
light slipped  and  the  floors  with  the  old  threadbare  carpet. 

Then  suddenly  the  hall  door  opened  with  a  jangle,  there  were 
steps  in  the  hall,  and  Old  Timmie  Carthewe  the  sexton  appeared 
in  the  dining-room.  He  had  a  goat's  face  and  a  body  like  a  hair- 
pin. 

"  Rector's  not  been  to  service,"  he  said.  "  There's  Miss  Dunnett 
and  Mrs.  Giles  and  the  two  Miss  Backshaws.  I'm  feared  he's 
forgotten." 

Maggie  started  up.  Instantly  to  her  mind  came  the  memory  of 
that  fancied  sound  from  her  father's  room.  She  listened  now,  her 
head  raised,  and  the  two  men,  their  eyes  bleared  but  their  noses 
sniffing  as  though  they  were  dogs,  listened  also.  There  were  cer- 
tain sounds,  clocks  ticking,  the  bough  scraping  on  the  wall,  a  cart's 
echo  on  the  frozen  road,  the  maid  singing  far  in  the  depths  of 
the  house.    Maggie  nodded  her  head. 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  she  said. 

She  went  into  the  hall  and  stood  again  listening.  Then  she 
called,  "  Father !  Father ! "  but  there  was  no  answer.  She  had 
never  in  all  her  life  been  frightened  by  anything  and  she  was  not 
frightened  now;  nevertheless,  as  she  went  up  the  stairs,  she  looked 
behind  her  to  see  whether  any  one  followed  her. 

She  called  again  "  Father ! "  then  went  to  his  door,  pushed  it 


DEATH  OP  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    17 

open,  and  looked  in.  The  room  was  cold  with  a  faint  scent  of 
tallow  candle  and  damp. 

In  the  twilight  she  saw  her  father's  body  lying  like  a  shadow 
stretched  right  across  the  floor,  with  the  grey  dirty  fingers  of  one 
hand  clenched. 

After  that  events  followed  swiftly.  Maggie  herself  had  no  time 
nor  opportunity  for  any  personal  emotion  save  a  dumb  kind  of 
wonder  that  she  did  not  feel  more.  But  she  saw  all  a  through  a 
glass  darkly."  There  had  been  first  that  moment  when  the  sexton 
and  Uncle  Mathew,  still  like  dogs  sniffing,  had  peered  with  their 
eyes  through  her  father's  door.  Then  there  had  been  the  sum- 
moning of  Dr.  Bubbage  from  the  village,  his  self-importance,  his 
continual  "  I  warned  him.  I  warned  him.  He  can't  say  I  didn't 
warn  him,"  and  then  (very  dim  and  far  away)  "  Thank  you,  Miss 
Cardinal.  I  think  I  will  have  a  glass  if  you  don't  mind."  There 
had  been  cook  crying  in  the  kitchen  (her  red  roses  intended  for 
Sunday  must  now  be  postponed)  and  the  maid  sniffing  in  the  hall. 
There  had  been  Uncle  Mathew,  muddled  and  confused,  but  cling- 
ing *to  his  one  idea  that  *  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  my  dear,  is 
to  send  for  your  Aunt  Anne."  There  had  been  the  telegram 
dispatched  to  Aunt  Anne,  and  then  after  that  the  house  had  seemed 
quite  filled  with  people — ladies  who  had  wished  to  know  whether 
they  could  help  her  in  any  way  and  even  the  village  butcher  who 
was  there  for  no  reason  but  stood  in  the  hall  rubbing  his  hands 
on  his  thighs  and  sniffing.  All  these  persons  Maggie  surveyed 
through  a  mist.  She  was  calm  and  collected  and  empty  of  all 
personality;  Maggie  Cardinal,  the  real  Maggie  Cardinal,  was  away 
on  a  visit  somewhere  and  would  not  be  back  for  a  time  or  two. 

Then  suddenly  as  the  house  had  filled  so  suddenly  it  emptied. 
Maggie  found  that  she  was  desperately  tired.  She  went  to  bed 
and  slept  instantly.  On  waking  next  morning  she  was  aware  that 
it  was  a  most  beautiful  winter's  day  and  that  there  was  something 
strange  in  the  air.  There  came  to  her  then  very  slowly  a  sense 
of  her  father.  She  saw  him  on  the  one  side,  persistently  as  she 
had  found  him  in  his  room,  strange,  shapeless,  with  a  crumpled 
face  and  a  dirty  beard  that  seemed  to  be  more  dead  than  the  rest 
of  him.  On  the  other  side  she  saw  him  as  she  had  found  him  in 
the  first  days  of  her  consciousness  of  the  world. 

He  must  have  been  "jolly"  then,  large  and  strong,  laughing 
often,  tossing  her,  she  remembered,  to  the  ceiling,  his  beard  jet- 
black  and  his  eyebrows  bushy  and  overhanging.  Once  that  vigour, 
afterwards  this  horror.  She  shook  away  from  her  last  vision  of 
him  but  it  returned  again  and  again,  hanging  about  her  over  her 


18  THE  CAPTIVES 

shoulder  like  an  ill-omened  messenger.  And  all  the  life  between 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  wiped  away  as  a  sponge  wipes  figures  off 
a  slate.  After  the  death  of  her  mother  she  had  made  the  best 
of  her  circumstances.  There  had  been  many  days  when  life  had 
been  unpleasant,  and  in  the  last  year,  as  his  miserliness  had  grown 
upon  him,  his  ill-temper  at  any  fancied  extravagance  had  been 
almost  that  of  an  insane  man,  but  Maggie  knew  very  little  of 
the  affairs  of  other  men  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  every  one  had 
some  disadvantage  with  which  to  grapple.  She  did  not  pretend 
to  care  for  her  father,  she  was  very  lonely  because  the  villagers 
hated  him,  but  she  had  always  made  the  best  of  everything  because 
she  had  never  had  an  intimate  friend  to  tell  her  that  that  was  a 
foolish  thing  to  do. 

It  was  indeed  marvellous  how  isolated  her  life  had  been;  she 
knew  simply  nothing  about  the  world  at  all. 

She  could  not  pretend  that  she  was  sorry  that  her  father  had 
died;  and  yet  she  missed  him  because  she  knew  very  well  that 
she  was  now  no  one's  business,  that  she  was  utterly  and  absolutely 
alone  in  the  universe.  It  might  be  said  that  she  could  not  be 
utterly  alone  when  she  had  her  Uncle  Mathew,  but,  although  she 
was  ignorant  of  life,  she  knew  her  Uncle  Mathew.  .  .  .  Never- 
theless, he  did  something  to  remove  the  sharp  alarm  of  her  sudden 
isolation.  Upon  the  day  after  her  father's  death  he  was  at  his 
very  best,  his  kindest,  and  most  gentle.  He  was  rather  pathetic, 
having  drunk  nothing  out  of  respect  to  the  occasion;  he  felt, 
somewhere  deep  down  in  him,  a  persistent  exaltation  that  his 
brother  Charles  was  dead,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  not  decent  to 
allow  this  feeling  to  conquer  him  and  he  was  truly  anxious  to 
protect  and  comfort  his  niece  so  well  as  he  was  able.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  he  suggested  that  they  should  go  for  a  walk.  Every- 
thing necessary  had  been  done.  An  answer  to  their  telegram  had 
been  received  from  his  sister  Anne  that  she  could  not  leave  London 
until  that  night  but  would  arrive  at  Clinton  St.  Mary  station  at 
half -past  nine  to-morrow  morning.  That  would  be  in  good  time 
for  the  funeral,  a  ceremony  that  was  to  be  conducted  by  the  Rev. 
Tom  Trefusis,  the  sporting  vicar  of  Cator  Hill,  the  neighbouring 
parish. 

The  house  now  was  empty  and  silent.  They  must  escape  from 
that  figure,  now  decent,  clean,  and  solemn,  lying  upon  the  bed 
upstairs.    Mathew  took  his  niece  by  the  hand  and  said: 

"  My  dear,  a  little  fresh  air  is  the  thing  for  both  of  us.  It  will 
cheer  you  up." 

So  they  went  out  for  a  walk  together.    Maggie  knew,  with  a 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    19 

deep  and  intimate  experience,  every  lane  and  road  within  twenty 
miles'  radius  of  St.  Dreot's.  There  was  the  high-road  that  went 
through  Cator  Hill  to  Clinton  and  then  to  Polwint;  here  were 
the  paths  across  the  fields  to  Lucent,  the  lanes  that  led  to  the  valley 
of  the  Lisp,  all  the  paths  like  spiders'  webs  through  Rothin  Wood, 
from  whose  curve  you  could  see  Polchester,  grey  and  white,  with 
its  red-brown  roofs  and  the  spires  of  the  Cathedral  thrusting  like 
pointing  fingers  into  the  heaven.  It  was  the  Polchester  View  that 
she  chose  to-day,  but  as  they  started  through  the  deep  lanes  down 
the  St.  Dreot's  hill  she  was  startled  and  disturbed  by  the  strange 
aspect  which  everything  wore  to  her.  She  had  not  as  yet  realised 
the  great  shock  her  father's  death  had  been;  she  was  exhausted, 
spiritually  and  physically,  in  spite  of  the  deep  sleep  of  the  night 
before.  The  form  and  shape  of  the  world  was  a  little  strained 
and  fantastic,  the  colours  uncertain,  now  vivid,  now  vanishing, 
the  familiar  trees,  hedges,  clouds,  screens,  as  it  were,  concealing 
some  scene  that  was  being  played  behind  them.  But  beyond  and 
above  all  other  sensations  she  was  conscious  of  her  liberty.  She 
struggled  against  this;  she  should  be  conscious,  before  everything,, 
of  her  father's  loss.  But  she  was  not.  It  meant  to  her  at  present 
not  so  much  the  loss  of  a  familiar  figure  as  the  sudden  juggling, 
by  an  outside  future,  of  all  the  regular  incidents  and  scenes  of 
her  daily  life,  as  at  a  pantomime  one  sees  by  a  transformation  of 
the  scenery,  the  tables,  the  chairs,  and  pictures  the  walls  dance 
to  an  unexpected  jig.  She  was  free,  free,  free — alone  but  free. 
What  form  her  life  would  take  she  did  not  know,  what  troubles 
and  sorrows  in  the  future  there  might  be  she  did  not  care — to- 
morrow her  life  would  begin. 

Although  unsentimental  she  was  tender-hearted  and  affectionate, 
but  now,  for  many  years,  her  life  with  her  father  had  been  a  daily 
battle  of  ever-increasing  anger  and  bitterness.  It  may  be  that  once 
he  had  loved  her;  that  had  been  in  these  days  when  she  was  not 
old  enough  to  love  him  .  .  .  since  she  had  known  him  he  had 
loved  only  money.  She  would  have  loved  him  had  he  allowed  her, 
and  because  he  did  not  she  bore  him  no  grudge.  She  had  always 
regarded  her  life,  sterile  and  unprofitable  as  it  was,  with  humour 
until  now  when,  like  a  discarded  dress,  it  had  slipped  behind  her. 
She  did  not  see  it,  even  now,  with  bitterness;  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness for  anything  in  her  character. 

As  they  walked  Uncle  Mathew  was  considering  her  for  the  first 
time.  On  the  other  occasions  when  he  had  stayed  in  his  brother's 
house  he  had  been  greatly  occupied  with  his  own  plans — requests 
for  money  (invariably  refused)  schemes  for  making  money,  plots 


20  THE  CAPTIVES 

to  frighten  hia  brother  out  of  one  or  other  of  his  possessions.  He 
had  been  frankly  predatory,  and  that  plain,  quiet  girl  his  niece  had 
been  pleasant  company  but  no  more.  Now  she  was  suddenly  of 
the  first  importance.  She  would  in  all  probability  inherit  a  con- 
siderable sum.  How  much  there  might  be  in  that  black  box  under 
the  bed  one  could  not  say,  but  surely  you  could  not  be  so  relent- 
less a  miser  for  so  long  a  period  without  accumulating  a  very 
agreeable  amount.  Did  the  girl  realise  that  she  would,  perhaps, 
be  rich?  Uncle  Mathew  licked  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  So  quiet 
and  self-possessed  was  she  that  you  could  not  tell  what  she  was 
thinking.  Were  she  only  pretty  she  might  marry  anybody.  As 
it  was,  with  that  figure.  .  .  .  But  she  was  a  good  girl.  Uncle 
Mathew  felt  kind  and  tender-hearted  towards  her.  He  would 
advise  her  about  life  of  which  he  had  had  a  very  considerable 
experience,  and  of  which,  of  course,  she  knew  nothing.  His 
heart  was  warm,  although  it  would  have  been  warmer  still  had 
he  been  able  to  drink  a  glass  of  something  before  starting 
out. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  now,  my  dear,  do  you  think  % "  he 
asked. 

They  had  left  the  deep  lanes  and  struck  across  the  hard-rutted 
fields.  A  thin  powder  of  snow  lay  upon  the  land,  and  under  the 
yellow  light  of  the  winter  sky  the  surface  was  blue,  shadowed  with 
white  patches  where  the  snow  had  fallen  more  thickly.  The  trees 
and  hedges  were  black  and  hard  against  the  white  horizon  that  was 
tightly  stretched  like  the  paper  of  a  Japanese  screen.  The  smell 
of  burning  wood  was  in  the  air,  and  once  and  again  a  rook  slowly 
swung  its  wheel,  cutting  the  air  as  it  flew.  The  cold  was  so  pleas- 
antly sharp  that  it  was  the  best  possible  thing  for  Uncle  Mathew, 
who  was  accustomed  to  an  atmosphere  of  hissing  gas,  unwashen 
glasses,  and  rinds  of  cheese. 

Maggie  did  not  answer  his  question  but  herself  asked  one. 

"  Uncle  Mathew,  do  you  believe  in  religion  ? " 

"  Religion,  my  dear  ? "  answered  her  uncle,  greatly  startled  at 
so  unusual  a  question.    "What  sort  of  religion?" 

"  The  kind  of  religion  that  father  preached  about  every  Sun- 
day— the  Christian  religion." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear,"  he  answered  confidentially, 
"I've  never  had  much  time  to  think  about  it.  With  some  men, 
you  see,  it's  part  of  their  lives,  and  with  others — well,  it  isn't. 
My  lines  never  ran  that  way." 

"  Was  father  very  religious  when  he  was  young  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't  say  that  he  was.    But  then  we  never  got  on,  your 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHAELES  CARDINAL  21 

father  and  I.  Our  lines  didn't  run  together  at  all.  But  I  shouldn't 
have  called  him  a  religious  man." 

"Then  all  this  time  father  has  been  lying?" 

Her  uncle  gazed  at  her  apprehensively.  He  did  not  wish  to 
undermine  her  faith  in  her  father  on  the  very  day  after  his  death, 
but  he  was  so  ignorant  about  her,  her  thoughts  and  beliefs  and 
desires,  that  he  did  not  know  what  her  idea  of  her  father  had 
been.  His  idea  of  him  had  always  been  that  he  was  a  dirty, 
miserly  scoundrel,  but  that  was  not  quite  the  thing  for  a  daughter 
to  feel,  and  there  was  an  innocence  and  simplicity  about  Maggie 
that  perplexed  him. 

"  I  can't  truly  say  that  I  ever  knew  what  your  father's  private 
feelings  were.  He  never  cared  for  me  enough  to  tell  me.  He  may 
have  been  very  religious  in  his  real  thoughts.  We  never  discussed 
such  things." 

Maggie  turned  round  upon  him. 

"I  know.  You're  pretending.  You've  said  to  yourself,  'I 
mustn't  tell  her  what  I  think  about  her  father  the  very  day  after 
his  death,  that  isn't  a  pleasant  thing  to  do.'  We've  all  got  to  pre- 
tend that  he  was  splendid.  But  he  wasn't — never.  Who  can  know 
it  better  than  I?  Didn't  he  worry  mother  until  she  died?  Didn't 
he  lead  me  an  awful  life  always,  and  aren't  I  delighted  now  that 
he's  dead?  It's  everything  to  me.  I've  longed  for  this  day  for 
years,  and  now  we've  got  to  pretend  that  we're  sorry  and  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  he  were  alive.  It  wouldn't  be  a  good 
thing — it  would  be  a  bad  thing  for  every  one.  He  was  a  bad  man 
and  I  hated  him." 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  cried.  Turning  away  from  her  uncle 
she  folded  her  face  in  her  arms  like  a  small  child  and  sobbed. 
Standing,  looking  at  her  bent  shoulders,  her  square,  ugly  figure, 
her  shabby  old  hat  with  its  dingy  black  ribbon,  pushed  a  little  to 
the  side  of  her  head,  Uncle  Mathew  thought  that  she  was  a  most 
uncomprehensible  girl.  If  6he  felt  like  that  about  her  father  why 
should  she  cry;  and  if  she  cried  she  must  surely  have  some  affec- 
tion for  his  memory.    All  he  could  say  was: 

"There,  there,  my  dear— Well,  well.  It's  all  right."  He  felt 
foolish  and  helpless. 

She  turned  round  at  last,  drying  her  eyes.  "  It's  such  a  shame," 
she  said,  still  sobbing,  "  that  that's  what  I  shall  feel  about  him. 
He's  all  I  had  and  that's  what  I  feel.  But  if  you  knew — if  you 
knew — all  the  things  he  did." 

They  walked  on  again,  entering  Rothin  Wood.  "  He  never  tried 
to  make  me  religious,"  she  went  m.    "  He  didn't  care  what  I  felt. 


22  THE  CAPTIVES 

I  sat  in  the  choir,  and  I  took  a  Sunday-school  class,  and  I  visited 
the  villagers,  but  I,  myself — what  happened  to  me — he  didn't  care. 
He  never  took  any  trouble  about  the  church,  he  just  gabbled  the 
prayers  and  preached  the  same  old  sermons.  People  in  the  village 
said  it  was  a  scandal  and  that  he  ought  to  be  turned  out  but  no 
one  ever  did  anything.  They'll  clean  everything  up  now.  There'll 
be  a  new  clergyman.  They'll  mend  the  holes  in  the  kitchen  floor 
and  the  ceiling  of  my  bedroom.    It  will  be  all  new  and  fresh." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Maggie  ?  "  said  her  uncle,  trying  to  make 
his  voice  indifferent  as  though  he  had  no  personal  interest  in  her 
plans. 

"  I  haven't  thought  yet,"  she  said. 

"  I've  an  idea,"  he  went  on.  "  What  do  you  say  to  your  living 
with  me?  A  nice  little  place  somewhere  in  London.  I've  felt  for 
a  long  time  that  I  should  settle  down.  Your  father  will  have  left 
you  a  little  money — not  much,  perhaps,  but  just  enough  for  us  to 
manage  comfortably.  And  there  we'd  be,  as  easy  as  anything.  I 
can  see  us  very  happy  together." 

But  he  did  not  as  yet  know  his  niece.    She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  to  live  with  Aunt  Anne  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth.  We  wouldn't  be  happy,  Uncle,  you  and  I.  Our  house 
would  always  be  in  a  mess  and  there  are  so  many  things  that  I 
must  learn  that  only  another  woman  could  teach  me.  I  never 
had  a  chance  with  father." 

He  had  entered  upon  this  little  walk  with  every  intention  of 
settling  the  whole  affair  before  their  return.  He  had  had  no  idea 
of  any  opposition — her  ignorance  of  the  world  would  make  her 
easy  to  adapt.  But  now  when  he  saw  that  she  had  already  con- 
sidered the  matter  and  was  firmly  resolved,  his  arguments  deserted 
him. 

"  Just  consider  a  moment,"  he  said. 

"I  think  it  will  be  best  for  me  to  live  with  the  aunts,"  she 
answered  firmly.  "They  have  wished  it  before.  Of  course  then 
it  was  impossible  but  now  it  will  do  very  well." 

He  had  one  more  attempt. 

"  You  won't  be  happy  there,  my  dear,  with  all  their  religion  and 
the  rest  of  it — and  two  old  maids.    You'll  see  no  life  at  all." 

"  That  depends  upon  myself,"  she  answered,  "  and  as  to  their 
religion  at  least  they  believe  in  it." 

"  Yes,  your  Aunt  Anne  is  a  very  sincere  woman,"  Uncle  Mathew 
answered  grimly. 

He  was  angry  and  helpless.  She  seemed  suddenly  some  one 
with  whom  it  was  impossible  to  argue.     He  had  intended  to  be 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL  23 

pathetic,  to  paint  delightful  pictures  of  uncle  and  niece  shelter- 
ing snugly  together  defended  by  their  affection  against  a  cold 
and  hostile  London.  His  own  eyes  had  filled  with  tears  as  he 
thought  of  it.  What  a  hard,  cold-hearted  girl  she  was!  Never- 
theless for  the  moment  he  abandoned  the  subject. 

That  she  should  go  and  live  with  her  aunts  was  not  for  Maggie 
in  any  way  a  new  idea.  A  number  of  years  ago  when  she  had 
been  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age  her  father 
had  had  a  most  violent  quarrel  with  his  sister  Anne.  Maggie 
had  never  known  the  exact  cause  of  this  although  even  at  that 
period  she  suspected  that  it  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
money.  She  found  afterwards  that  her  father  had  considered  that 
certain  pieces  of  furniture  bequeathed  to  the  family  by  a  defunct 
relation  were  his  and  not  his  sister's.  Miss  Anne  Cardinal,  a 
lady  of  strong  character,  clung  to  her  sofa,  cabinet,  and  porcelain 
bowls,  and  successfully  maintained  her  right.  The  Reverend 
Charles  forbade  the  further  mention  of  her  name  by  any  member 
of  his  household.  This  quarrel  was  a  grievous  disappointment  to 
Maggie  who  had  often  been  promised  that  when  she  should  be  a 
good  girl  she  should  go  and  stay  with  her  aunts  in  London.  She 
had  invented  for  herself  a  strange  fascinating  picture  of  the  dark, 
mysterious  London  house,  with  London  like  a  magic  cauldron 
bubbling  beyond  it.  There  was  moreover  the  further  strangeness 
of  her  aunt's  religion.  Her  father  in  his  anger  had  spoken  about 
"  their  wicked  blasphemy,"  "  their  insolence  in  the  eyes  of  God," 
"  their  blindness  and  ignorant  conceit."  Maggie  had  discovered, 
on  a  later  day,  from  her  uncle  that  her  aunts  belonged  to  a  sect 
known  as  the  Kingscote  Brethren  and  that  the  main  feature  of 
their  creed  was  that  they  expected  the  second  coming  of  the  Lord 
God  upon  earth  at  no  very  distant  date. 

"Will  it  really  happen,  Uncle  Mathew?"  she  asked  in  an  awe- 
struck voice  when  she  first  heard  this. 

H  It's  all  bunkum  if  you  ask  me,"  said  her  uncle.  "  And  it's  had 
a  hardening  effect  on  your  aunts  who  were  kind  women  once,  but 
they're  completely  in  the  hands  of  the  blackguard  who  runs  their 
chapel,  poor  innocents.    I'd  wring  his  neck  if  I  caught  him." 

All  this  was  very  fascinating  to  Maggie  who  was  of  a  practical 
mind  with  regard  to  the  facts  immediately  before  her  but  had 
beyond  them  a  lively  imagination.  Her  life  had  been  so  lonely, 
spent  for  the  most  part  so  far  from  children  of  her  own  age,  that 
she  had  no  test  of  reality.  She  did  not  see  any  reason  why  the 
Lord  God  should  not  come  again  and  she  saw  every  reason  why 
her  aunts  should  condemn  her  uncle.     That  London  house  swam 


24  THE  CAPTIVES 

now  in  a  light  struck  partly  from  the  wisdom  and  omniscience  of 
her  aunts,  partly  from  God's  threatened  descent  upon  them. 

Aunt  Anne's  name  was  no  longer  mentioned  in  St.  Dreot's  hut 
Maggie  did  not  forget,  and  at  every  new  tyranny  from  her  father 
she  thought  to  herself — "Well,  there  is  London.  I  shall  be  there 
one  day." 

As  they  walked  Maggie  looked  at  her  uncle.  What  was  he 
really?  He  should  be  a  gentleman  and  yet  he  didn't  look  like  one. 
She  remembered  things  that  he  had  at  different  times  said  to  her. 

"  Why,  look  at  myself ! "  he  had  on  earlier  days,  half-maudlin 
from  "  his  drop  at  the  '  Bull  and  Bush,' "  exclaimed  to  Maggie, 
"I  can't  call  myself  a  success!  I'm  a  rotten  failure  if  you  want 
to  know,  and  I  had  most  things  in  my  favour  to  start  with,  went 
to  Cambridge,  had  a  good  opening  as  a  barrister.  But  it  wasn't 
quick  enough  for  me.  I  was  restless  and  wanted  to  jump  the 
moon — now  look  at  me!  Same  with  your  father,  only  he's  put 
all  his  imagination  into  money — same  as  your  aunts  have  put 
theirs  into  religion.  We're  not  like  ordinary  people,  us  Cardi- 
nals." 

"  And  have  I  got  a  lot  of  imagination  too  ? "  Maggie  had  asked 
on  one  occasion. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  her  uncle  had  answered  her.  "You 
don't  look  to  me  like  a  Cardinal  at  all — much  too  quiet.  But  you 
may  have  it  somewhere.    Look  out  for  a  bad  time  if  you  have." 

To-day  Maggie's  abrupt  checking  of  his  projects  had  made  him 
sulky  and  he  talked  but  little.  "  Damn  it  all !  "  he  had  started  out 
with  the  most  charming  intentions  towards  the  girl  and  now  look 
at  her!  Was  it  natural  conduct  in  the  day  after  she  had  lost  her 
only  protector?  No,  it  was  not.  Had  she  been  pretty  he  might 
have,  even  now,  forgiven  her,  but  to-day  she  looked  especially  plain 
with  her  pale  face  and  shabby  black  dress  and  her  obstinate  mouth 
and  chin.  He  was  uneasy  too  about  the  imminent  arrival  of  his 
sister  Anne,  who  always  frightened  him  and  made  him  think 
poorly  of  the  world  in  general.  No  hope  of  getting  any  money 
out  of  her,  nor  would  Charles  have  left  him  a  penny.  It  was  a 
rotten,  unsympathetic  world,  and  Uncle  Mathew  cursed  God  as  he 
strutted  sulkily  along.    Maggie  also  had  fallen  into  silence. 

They  came  at  last  out  of  the  wood  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  it, 
with  the  pine  trees  behind  them,  looking  down  over  Polchester. 
On  this  winter's  afternoon  Polchester  with  the  thin  covering  of 
snow  upon  its  roofs  sparkled  like  a  city  under  glass.  The 
Cathedral  was  dim  in  the  mist  of  the  early  dusk  and  the  sun, 
setting  behind  the  hill,  with  its  last  rays  caught  the  windows  so 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    25 

that  they  blazed  through  the  haze  like  smoking  fires.  Whilst 
Maggie  and  her  uncle  stood  there  the  bells  began  to  ring  for 
Evensong,  and  the  sound  like  a  faint  echo  seemed  to  come  from 
behind  them  out  of  the  wood.  In  the  spring  all  the  Polchester 
orchards  would  be  white  and  pink  with  blossom,  in  the  summer 
the  river  that  encircled  the  city  wall  would  run  like  a  blue  scarf 
between  its  green  sloping  hills — now  there  was  frost  and  snow 
and  mist  with  the  fires  smouldering  at  its  heart.  She  gazed  at 
it  now  as  she  had  never  gazed  at  it  before.  She  was  going  into 
it  now.  Her  life  was  beginning  at  last.  When  the  sun  had  left 
the  windows  and  the  walls  were  grey  she  turned  back  into  the 
wood  and  led  the  way  silently  towards  home. 

The  house  that  night  was  very  strange  with  her  father  dead 
in  it.  She  sat,  because  she  thought  it  her  duty,  in  his  bedroom. 
He  lay  on  his  bed,  with  his  beard  carefully  combed  and  brushed 
now,  spread  out  upon  the  sheet.  His  closed  eyes  and  mouth  gave 
him  a  grave  and  reverend  appearance  which  he  had  never  worn 
in  his  life.  He  lay  there,  under  the  flickering  candle-light,  like 
some  saint  who  at  length,  after  a  life  of  severe  discipline,  had 
entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord.  Beneath  the  bed  was  the  big 
black  box. 

Maggie  did  not  look  at  her  father.  She  sat  there,  near  the  dark 
window,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap.  She  thought  of  nothing  at 
all  except  the  rats.  She  was  not  afraid  of  them  but  they  worried 
her.  They  had  been  a  trouble  in  the  house  for  a  long  time  past, 
poison  had  been  laid  for  them  and  they  had  refused  to  take  it. 
They  had  had,  perhaps,  some  fear  of  the  Reverend  Charles,  at  any 
rate  they  scampered  and  scurried  now  behind  the  wainscoting  as 
though  conscious  of  their  release.  *  Even  the  rats  are  glad," 
Maggie  thought  to  herself.  In  the  uncertain  candle-light  the 
fancy  seized  her  that  one  rat,  a  very  large  one,  had  crept  out 
from  his  hole,  crawled  on  to  the  bed,  and  now  sat  on  the  sheet 
looking  at  her  father.  It  would  be  a  horrible  thing  did  the  rat 
walk  across  her  father's  beard,  and  yet  for  her  life  she  could  not 
move.  She  waited,  fascinated.  She  fancied  that  the  beard  stirred 
a  little  as  though  the  rat  had  moved  it.  She  fancied  that  the 
Tat  grew  and  grew  in  size,  now  there  were  many  of  them,  all 
with  their  little  sharp  beady  eyes  watching  the  corpse.  Now  there 
were  none;  only  the  large  limbs  outlined  beneath  the  spread,  the 
waxen  face,  the  ticking  clock,  the  strange  empty  shape  of  his 
grey  dressing-gown  hanging  upon  a  nail  on  the  wall.  Where  was 
her  father  gone?  She  did  not  know,  she  did  rot  care — only  she 
trusted  that  she  would  never  meet  him  again — never  again.    Her 


26  THE  CAPTIVES 

head  nodded;  her  hands  and  feet  were  cold;  the  candle-light 
jumped,  the  rats  scampered  .    .    .  she  slept. 

When  it  was  quite  dark  beyond  the  windows  and  the  candles 
were  low  Maggie  came  downstairs,  stiff,  cold,  and  very  hungry. 
She  felt  that  it  was  wrong  to  have  slept  and  very  wrong  to  be 
hungry,  but  there  it  was ;  she  did  not  pretend  to  herself  that  things 
were  other  than  they  were.  In  the  dining-room  she  found  supper 
laid  out  upon  the  table,  cold  beef,  potatoes  in  their  jackets,  cold 
beetroot,  jelly,  and  cheese,  and  her  uncle  playing  cards  on  the 
unoccupied  end  of  the  table  in  a  melancholy  manner  by  himself. 
She  felt  that  it  was  wrong  of  him  to  play  cards  on  such  an  oc- 
casion, but  the  cards  were  such  dirty  grey  ones  and  he  obtained 
obviously  so  little  pleasure  from  his  amusement  that  he  could  not 
be  considered  to  be  wildly  abandoning  himself  to  riot  and  extrava- 
gance. 

She  felt  pleasure  in  his  company;  for  the  first  time  since  her 
father's  death  she  was  a  little  frightened  and  uneasy.  She  might 
even  have  gone  to  him  and  cried  on  his  shoulder  had  he  given  her 
any  encouragement,  but  he  did  not  speak  to  her  except  to  say 
that  he  had  already  eaten.    He  was  still  a  little  sulky  with  her. 

When  she  had  finished  her  meal  she  sat  in  her  accustomed  chair 
by  the  fire,  her  head  propped  on  her  hands,  looking  into  the  flame, 
and  there,  half-asleep,  half-awake,  memories,  conversations,  long- 
vanished  scenes  trooped  before  her  eyes  as  though  they  were  bid- 
ding her  a  long  farewell.  She  did  not,  as  she  sat  there,  senti- 
mentalise about  any  of  them,  she  saw  them  as  they  were,  some 
happy,  some  unhappy,  some  terrifying,  some  amusing,  all  of  them 
dead  and  passed,  grey  and  thin,  the  life  gone  out  of  them.  Her 
mind  was  fixed  on  the  future.  What  was  it  going  to  be?  Would 
she  have  money  as  her  uncle  had  said?  Would  she  see  London  and 
the  world?  Would  she  find  friends,  people  who  would  be  glad 
to  be  with  her  and  have  her  with  them  ?  What  would  her  aunts 
be  like?  and  so  from  them,  what  about  all  the  other  members  of 
the  family  of  whom  she  had  heard  ?  She  painted  for  herself  a  gay 
scene  in  which,  at  the  door  of  some  great  house,  a  fine  gathering 
of  Cardinals  waited  with  smiles  and  outstretched  hands  to  wel- 
come her.  Then,  laughing  at  herself  as  she  always  did  when  she 
had  allowed  her  fancy  free  rein,  she  shook  her  head.  No,  it  cer- 
tainly would  not  be  like  that.  Relations  were  not  like  that.  That 
was  not  the  way  to  face  the  world  to  encourage  romantic  dreams. 
Her  uncle,  watching  her  surreptitiously,  wondered  of  what  she  was 
thinking.  Her  determined  treatment  of  him  that  afternoon  con- 
tinued to  surprise  him.    She  certainly  ought  to  make  her  way  in 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    27 

the  world,  but  what  a  pity  that  she  was  so  plain.  Perhaps  if  she 
got  some  colour  into  her  cheeks,  dressed  better,  brushed  her  hair 
differently — no,  her  mouth  would  always  be  too  large  and  her  nose 
too  small — and  her  figure  was  absurd.  Uncle  Mathew  considered 
that  he  was  a  judge  of  women. 

He  rose  at  last  and,  rather  shamefacedly,  said  that  he  should 
go  to  bed.  Maggie  wondered  at  the  confusion  that  she  detected  in 
him.    She  looked  at  him  and  he  dropped  his  eyes. 

"Good  night,  Uncle  Mathew." 

He  looked  at  her  then  and  noticed  by  her  white  face  and  dark- 
lined  eyes  what  a  strain  the  day  had  been  to  her.  He  saw  again 
the  figure  in  the  shabby  black  hat  sobbing  in  the  lane.  He  sud- 
denly put  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her  close  to  him.  She 
noticed  that  he  smelled  of  whisky,  but  she  felt  his  kindness,  and 
putting  her  hand  on  his  fat  shoulder  kissed  once  more  his 
cheek. 

When  he  had  left  her,  her  weariness  came  suddenly  down  upon 
her,  overwhelming  her  as  though  the  roof  had  fallen  in.  The 
lamp  swelled  before  her  tired  eyes  as  though  it  had  been  an  evil, 
unhealthy  flower.  The  table  slid  into  the  chairs  and  the  cold  beef 
leered  at  the  jelly;  the  pictures  jumped  and  the  clock  ran  in  a 
mad  scurry  backwards  and  forwards. 

She  dragged  her  dazed  body  up  through  the  silent  house  to  her 
bedroom,  undressed,  was  instantly  in  bed  and  asleep. 

She  slept  without  dreams  but  woke  suddenly  as  though  she  had 
been  flung  into  the  midst  of  one.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  knowing 
from  the  thumping  of  her  heart  that  she  was  seized  with  panic 
but  finding,  in  the  first  flash,  no  reason  for  her  alarm.  The  room 
was  pitch  black  with  shadows  of  light  here  and  there,  but  she 
had  with  her,  in  the  confusion  of  her  sleep,  uncertainty  as  to  the 
different  parts  of  the  room.  What  had  awakened  her?  Of  what 
was  she  frightened?  Then  suddenly,  as  one  slits  a  black  screen 
with  a  knife,  a  thin  line  of  light  cracked  the  darkness.  As  though 
some  one  had  whispered  it  in  her  ear  she  knew  that  the  door  was 
there  and  the  dark  well  of  uncertainty  into  which  she  had  been 
plunged  was  suddenly  changed  into  her  own  room  where  she  could 
recognise  the  window,  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  looking-glass,  the 
chairs.  Some  one  was  opening  her  door  and  her  first  thought  that 
it  was  of  course  her  father  was  checked  instantly  by  the  knowledge, 
conveyed  again  as  though  some  one  had  whispered  to  her,  that 
her  father  was  dead. 

The  thin  line  of  light  was  now  a  wedge,  it  wavered,  drew  back 
to  a  spider's  thread  again,  then  broadened  with  a  flush  of  colour 


28  THE  CAPTIVES 

into  a  streaming  path.  Some  one  stood  in  the  doorway  holding 
a  candle.  Maggie  saw  that  it  was  Uncle  Mathew  in  his  shirt  and 
trousers. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

He  swayed  as  he  stood  there,  his  candle  making  fantastic  leaps 
and  shallows  of  light.  He  was  smiling  at  her  in  a  silly  way  and 
she  saw  that  he  was  drunk.  She  had  had  a  horror  of  drunkenness 
ever  since,  as  a  little  girl,  she  had  watched  an  inebriated  carter 
kicking  his  wife.  She  always,  after  that,  saw  the  woman's  bent 
head  and  stooping  shoulders.  Now  she  knew,  sitting  up  in  bed, 
that  she  was  frightened  not  only  of  Uncle  Mathew,  but  of  the 
house,  of  the  whole  world. 

She  was  alone.  She  realised  her  loneliness  in  a  great  flash  of 
bewilderment  and  cold  terror  as  though  the  ground  had  suddenly 
broken  away  from  her  and  she  was  on  the  edge  of  a  vast  pit. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  help  her.  Her  father  was  dead. 
The  cook  and  the  maid  were  sunk  in  heavy  slumber  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house.  There  was  no  one  to  help  her.  She  was  alone, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  the  shock  of  that  discovery  she 
realised  that  she  would  always  be  alone  now,  for  the  rest  of  her 
life. 

"  What  is  it,  Uncle  Mathew  ? "  she  said  again.  Her  voice  was 
steady,  although  her  heart  hammered.  Some  other  part  of  her 
brain  was  wondering  where  it  was  that  he  had  got  the  drink. 
He  must  have  had  a  bottle  of  whisky  in  his  room ;  she  remembered 
his  shyness  when  he  said  good-night  to  her. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  swaying  on  his  feet  and 
smiling  at  her.  The  flame  of  the  light  rose  and  fell  in  jerks  and 
spasms. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  I'd  come — to  see  m'  little  Maggie,  m' 
little  niece,  jus'  to  talk  a  lill  bit  and  cheer  her  up — up."  He  drew 
nearer  the  bed.  "  She'll  be  lonely,  I  said — lonely — very — aren't 
you — lonely  Maggie  ? " 

"  It's  very  late,"  she  said,  "  and  you're  dropping  grease  all  over 
the  floor  with  that  candle.  You  go  back  to  bed,  uncle.  I'm  all 
right.    You  go  back  to  bed." 

"  Go  back  ?  No,  no,  no.  Oh  no,  not  back  to  bed.  It'll 
soon  be  mornin'.  That'll  be  jolly — jolly.  We'll  talk — together  till 
mornin'." 

He  put  the  candle  on  a  chair,  nearly  falling  as  he  did  so,  then 
came  towards  her.  He  stood  over  her,  his  shirt,  open  at  the  neck, 
protuberating  over  his  stomach,  his  short  thick  legs  swaying.  His 
red,  unshaven  face  with  the  trembling  lips  was  hateful  to  her. 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    29 

Suddenly  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  put  his  hands  out 
towards  her.    He  caught  her  hair. 

"  My  little  Maggie — my  little  Maggie,"  he  said. 

The  fright,  the  terror,  the  panic  that  seized  her  was  like  the 
sudden  rising  of  some  black  figure  who  grew  before  her,  bent 
towards  her  and  with  cold  hard  fingers  squeezed  her  throat.  For 
an  instant  she  was  helpless,  quivering,  weak  in  every  bone  of 
her  body. 

Then  some  one  said  to  her: 

*  But  you  can  manage  this." 

"  I  can  manage  this,"  she  answered  almost  aloud. 

"You're  alone  now.  You  mustn't  let  things  be  too  much  for 
you." 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  on  the  farther  side  away  from  her 
uncle.  She  put  on  her  dressing-gown.  She  stood  and  pointed  at 
the  door. 

"  Now,  uncle,  you  go  back  to  your  room — at  once.  It's  disgrace- 
ful coming'  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  disturbing  every  one. 
Go  back  to  bed." 

The  new  tone  in  her  voice  startled  him.  He  looked  at  her  in 
a  bewildered  fashion.    He  got  up  from  the  bed. 

"Why,  Maggie — I  only — only " 

He  stared  from  her  to  the  candle  and  from  the  candle  back  to 
her  again. 

"  Now  go,"  she  repeated.    "  Quick  now." 

He  hung  his  head.  "  Now  you're  angry — angry  with  your  poor 
ole  uncle — poor  ole  uncle."  He  looked  at  her,  his  eyes  puzzled  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 

"  You're  very  hard,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  He  stumbled 
towards  the  door — "  Very  hard,"  he  repeated,  and  went  out,  his 
head  still  hanging. 

She  heard  him  knock  his  foot  against  the  stairs.  Soon  there 
was  silence. 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and  went  back  to  bed.  She  lay  there, 
her  heart,  at  first,  throbbing,  her  eyes  straining  the  darkness.  Then 
she  grew  more  tranquil.  She  felt  in  her  heart  a  strange  triumph 
as  though  already  she  had  begun  life  and  had  begun  it  with  suc- 
cess. She  thought,  before  she  sank  deep  into  sleep,  that  anything 
would  yield  to  one  did  one  only  deal  sensibly  with  it.  .  /  .  After 
all,  it  was  a  fine  thing  to~Be  alone. 


CHAPTER  H 

AUNT   ANNE 

IN  the  morning,  however,  she  discovered  no  fine  things  any- 
where. The  hours  that  had  elapsed  since  her  father's  death 
had  wrought  in  him  a  "  sea-change."  He  had  gained  nobility, 
almost  beauty.  She  wondered  with  a  desolate  self-criticism 
whether  during  all  those  years  she  had  been  to  blame  and  not  he. 
Perhaps  he  had  wished  for  sympathy  and  intimacy  and  she  had 
repulsed  him.  His  little  possessions  here  and  there  about  the 
house  reproached  her. 

Uncle  Mathew  had  a  bad  headache  and  would  not  come  down 
to  breakfast.  She  felt  indignant  with  him  but  also  indulgent. 
He  had  shown  himself  hopelessly  lacking  in  good  taste,  and  good 
feeling,  but  then  she  had  never  supposed  that  he  had  these  things. 
At  the  same  time  the  last  support  seemed  to  have  been  removed 
from  her;  it  might  well  be  that  her  Aunt  Anne  would  not  care  for 
her  and  would  not  wish  to  have  her  in  her  house.  What  should 
she  do  then?  Whither  should  she  go?  She  flung  up  her  head  and 
looked  bravely  into  the  face  of  Ellen,  the  cook,  who  came  to  re- 
move the  breakfast,  but  she  had  to  bite  her  lip  to  keep  back  the 
tears  that  would  come  and  fill  her  eyes  so  that  the  world  was  misty 
and  obscure. 

There  was,  she  fancied,  something  strange  about  Ellen.  In  her 
eyes  some  obscure  triumph  or  excitement,  some  scorn  and  deri- 
sion, Maggie  fancied,  of  herself.  Had  the  woman  been  drink- 
ing?   .    .    . 

Then  there  arrived  Mr.  Brassy,  her  father's  solicitor,  from  Cator 
Hill.  He  had  been  often  in  the  house,  a  short  fat  man  with  a 
purple  face,  clothes  of  a  horsy  cut,  and  large,  red,  swollen  fingers. 
He  took  now  possession  of  the  house  with  much  self-importance. 
"  Well,  Miss  Maggie "  (he  blew  his  words  at  her  as  a  child  blows 
soap-bubbles).  "  Here  we  are,  then.  Very  sad  indeed — very. 
Pve  been  through  the  house — got  the  will  all  right.  Your  aunt, 
you  say,  will  be  with  us  ? " 

"  My  aunt  from  London,  Miss  Anne  Cardinal.  I  expect  her  in 
half  an  hour.  She  should  have  arrived  at  Clinton  by  the  half- 
past  nine  train." 

30 


AUNT  ANNE  31 

"Well,  well.    Yes — yes — indeed,  your  uncle  is  also  here?" 

"  Yes.    He  will  be  down  shortly." 

"  Very  good,  Miss  Maggie.     Very  good." 

She  hated  that  he  should  call  her  Miss  Maggie.  He  had  always 
treated  her  with  considerable  respect,  but  to-day  she  fancied  that 
he  patronised  her.  He  placed  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  her 
shoulder  and  she  shrank  back.  He  felt  her  action  and,  abashed  a 
little,  coughed  and  blew  his  nose.  He  strutted  about  the  room. 
Then  the  door  opened  and  Ellen  the  cook  looked  in  upon  them. 

"  I  only  wished  to  see,  Miss,  whether  I  could  do  anything  for 


you 


2" 


"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Been  with  you  some  time  that  woman  ? "  said  Mr.  Brassy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  "  about  five  years,  I  think." 

"  Hum !    Hum — name  of  Harmer." 

"Yes.    Harmer." 

"Not  married?" 

"  No,"  answered  Maggie,  wondering  at  this  interest. 

"  Not  so  far  as  you  know." 

"  No.    She's  always  Miss  Harmer." 

"  Quite  so — quite  so.     Dear  me,  yes." 

Other  people  appeared,  asked  questions  and  vanished.  It  seemed 
to  have  been  all  taken  out  of  her  hands  and  it  was  strange  how 
desolate  this  made  her.  For  so  many  years  she  had  had  the  man- 
agement of  that  house,  since  her  fourteenth  birthday,  indeed. 
Ugly  and  dilapidated  though  the  place  had  been,  it  had  grown, 
after  a  time,  to  belong  to  her,  and  she  had  felt  as  though  it  were 
in  some  way  grateful  to  her  for  keeping  it,  poor  thing,  together. 
Now  it  had  suddenly  withdrawn  itself  and  was  preparing  for  the 
next  comer.  Maggie  felt  this  quite  definitely  and  thought  that 
probably  it  was  glad  that  now  its  roof  would  be  mended  and  its 
floors  made  whole.  It  had  thrown  her  off.  .  .  .  Well,  she  would 
not  burden  it  long. 

There  were  sounds  then  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  The  old 
dilapidated  cab  from  Clinton  with  its  ricketty  windows  and  moth- 
eaten  seats  that  smelt  of  straw  and  beer  was  standing  at  the  door, 
the  horse  puffing  great  breaths  of  steam  into  the  frozen  air.  Her 
aunt  had  arrived.  Maggie,  standing  behind  the  window,  looked 
out.  The  carriage  door  opened,  and  a  figure,  that  seemed  un- 
usually tall,  appeared  to  straighten  itself  out  and  rose  to  its  full 
height  on  the  gravel  path  as  though  it  had  been  sitting  in  the  cab 
pressed  together,  its  head  upon  its  knees. 

Then  in  the  hall  that  was  dark  even  on  the  brightest  day,  Aunt 


32  THE  CAPTIVES 

Anne  revealed  herself  as  a  lady,  tall  indeed,  but  not  too  tall,  of  a 
fine  carriage,  in  a  black  rather  shabby  dress  and  a  black  bonnet. 
Her  face  was  grave  and  sharply  pointed,  with  dark  eyes — sad 
rather,  and  of  the  pale  remote  colour  that  the  Virgin  in  the  St. 
Dreot's  east  end  window  wears.  Standing  there  in  the  dusky 
hall,  quietly,  quite  apart  from  the  little  bustle  that  surrounded  her, 
she  seemed  to  Maggie  even  in  that  first  moment  like  some  one 
wrapt,  caught  away  into  her  own  visions. 

"  I  paid  the  cabman  five  shillings,"  she  said  very  softly.  "  I 
hope  that  was  right.    And  you  are  Maggie,  are  you  ? " 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  Her  lips  were  warm  and  com- 
forting. Maggie,  who  had,  when  she  was  shy,  something  of  the 
off-hand  manner  of  a  boy,  said: 

"  Yes.    That's  all  right.    We  generally  give  him  four  and  six." 

They  went  into  the  dining-room  where  was  Mr.  Brassy.  He 
came  forward  to  them,  blowing  his  words  at  them,  rubbing  his 
hands : 

"  Miss  Cardinal — I  am  honoured — my  name  is  Brassy,  your 
brother's  lawyer.  Very,  very  sad — so  sudden,  so  sudden.  The 
funeral  is  at  twelve.    If  there  is  anything  I  can  do " 

Miss  Cardinal  did  not  regard  him  at  all  and  Maggie  saw  that 
this  annoyed  him.  The  girl  watched  her  aunt,  conscious  of  some 
strange  new  excitement  at  her  heart.  She  had  never  seen  any 
one  who  in  the  least  resembled  this  remote  silent  woman.  Maggie 
did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she  had  expected,  but  certainly  it 
had  not  been  this.  There  was  something  in  her  Aunt's  face  that 
recalled  her  father  and  her  uncle,  something  in  the  eyes,  something 
in  the  width  and  height  of  the  forehead,  but  this  resemblance 
only  accentuated  the  astounding  difference.  Maggie's  first  impres- 
sion was  her  ultimate  one — that  her  aunt  had  strayed  out  of 
some  stained-glass  window  into  a  wild  world  that  did  not  be- 
wilder her  only  because  she  did  not  seriously  regard  it.  Maggie 
found  herself  wondering  who  had  fastened  her  aunt's  buttons  and 
strings  when  she  rose  in  the  morning,  how  had  she  ever  travelled 
in  the  right  train  and  descended  at  the  right  station?  How  could 
she  remember  such  trifles  when  her  thoughts  were  fixed  on  such 
distant  compelling  dreams?  The  pale  oval  face,  the  black  hair 
brushed  back  from  the  forehead,  the  thin  hands  with  long  tapering 
fingers,  the  black  dress,  the  slender  upright  body — this  figure 
against  the  cold  bright  winter  sunlight  was  a  picture  that  re- 
mained always  from  that  day  in  Maggie's  souL 

Her  aunt  looked  about  her  as  though  she  had  just  awaked  from 
sleep. 


AUNT  ANNE  3a 

"  Would  you  care  to  come  up  to  your  room  ? "  asked  Maggie* 
feeling  the  embarrassment  of  Mr.  Brassy's  presence. 

"  Yes,  dear,  thank  you — I  will,"  said  Miss  Cardinal.  They 
moved  from  the  room,  Aunt  Anne  walking  with  a  strange,  almost 
clumsy  uncertainty,  halting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  as  though 
she  had  never  learnt  to  trust  her  legs,  a  movement  with  which 
Maggie  was  to  become  intensely  familiar.  It  was  as  though  her- 
aunt  had  flown  in  some  earlier  existence,  and  had  never  become 
accustomed  to  this  clumsier  earthly  fashion. 

The  spare  bedroom  was  a  bright  room  with  a  broad  high  win- 
dow. The  view  was  magnificent,  looking  over  the  hill  that  dropped 
below  the  vicarage  out  across  fields  and  streams  to  Cator  Hill, 
to  the  right  into  the  heart  of  the  St.  Dreot  Woods,  to  the  left 
to  the  green  valley  through  whose  reeds  and  sloping  shadows  the 
Lisp  gleamed  like  a  burnished  wire  threading  its  way  to  the  sea. 
There  was  a  high-backed  old-fashioned  chair  by  the  window. 
Against  this  Miss  Cardinal  stood,  her  thin  body  reflected,  motion- 
less, as  though  it  had  been  painted  in  a  long  glass  behind  her.. 
She  gazed  before  her. 

Maggie  saw  that  she  was  agitated,  passionately  moved.  The 
sun  catching  the  hoar-frost  on  the  frozen  soil  turned  the  world 
to  crystal,  and  in  every  field  were  little  shallows  of  blue  light;  the 
St.  Dreot  Woods  were  deep  black  with  flickering  golden  stars. 

She  tried  to  speak.  She  could  not.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 
"  It  is  so  long  .  .  .  since  I  .  .  .  London,"  she  smiled  at  Mag- 
gie.   Then  Maggie  heard  her  say: 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  therefore  can  I  lack  nothing. 

He  shall  feed  me  in  a  green  pasture;  and  lead  me  forth  beside 
the  waters  of  comfort. 

He  shall  convert  my  soul,  and  bring  me  forth  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness,  for  His  Name's  sake. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil;  for  thou  art  with  me,  thy  rod  and  thy  staff 
comfort  me. 

Thou  shalt  prepare  a  table  before  me  against  them  that  trouble 
me:  thou  hast  anointed  my  head  with  oil,  and  my  cup  shall  be 
full. 

But  thy  loving-kindness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days 
of  my  life ;  and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever. 

There  was  a  pause — then  Maggie  said  timidly,  "  Won't  you  take, 
off  your  bonnet?    It  will  be  more  comfortable." 


34  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear."  She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  laid  it  on 
the  bed.  Then  she  resumed  her  stand  at  the  window,  her  eyes 
lost  in  the  sunny  distant*.  *  I  did  wrong,"  she  said,  as  though 
she  were  speaking  to  heiflflf.  "I  should  not  have  allowed  that 
quarrel  with  your  father.  I  regret  it  now  very  deeply.  But  we 
always  see  too  late  the  consequences  of  our  proud  self-will."  She 
turned  then. 

"  Come  here,  dear,"  she  said. 

Maggie  came  to  her.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her  and  Maggie  was 
deeply  conscious  of  her  shabby  dress,  her  rough  hands,  her  ugly 
boots.  Then,  as  always  when  she  was  self-critical,  her  eyes  grew 
haughty  and  her  mouth  defiant. 

Her  aunt  kissed  her,  her  cool,  firm  fingers  against  the  girl's 
warm  neck. 

"You  will  come  to  us  now,  dear.  You  should  hare  come  long 
ago." 

Maggie  wanted  to  speak,  but  she  could  not. 

"  We  will  try  to  make  you  happy,  but  ours  is  not  an  exciting 
life." 

Maggie's  eyes  lit  up.  "It  has  not,"  she  said,  "been  very  ex- 
citing here  always."  Then  she  went  on,  colour  in  her  cheeks,  "  I 
think  father  did  all  he  could.  I  feel  now  that  there  were  a  lot  of 
things  that  I  should  have  done,  only  I  didn't  see  them  at  the 
time.  He  never  asked  me  to  help  him,  but  I  wish  now  that  I  had 
offered — or — suggested." 

Her  lips  quivered,  again  she  was  near  tears,  and  again,  as  it  had 
been  on  her  walk  with  Uncle  Mathew,  her  regret  was  not  for  her 
father  but  for  the  waste  that  her  life  with  him  had  been.  But 
there  was  something  in  her  aunt  that  prevented  complete  confi- 
dence. She  seemed  in  something  to  be  outside  small  daily  troubles. 
Before  they  could  speak  any  more  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door 
and  Uncle  Mathew  came  in.  He  stood  there  looking  both  ashamed 
of  himself  and  obstinate. 

He  most  certainly  did  not  appear  at  his  best,  a  large  piece  of 
plaster  on  his  right  cheek  showing  where  he  had  cut  himself  with 
his  razor,  and  a  shabby  and  tight  black  suit  (it  was  his  London 
suit,  and  had  lain  crumpled  disastrously  in  his  hand-bag)  accen- 
tuating the  undue  roundness  of  his  limbs;  his  eyes  blinked  and 
his  mouth  trembled  a  little  at  the  corners.  He  was  obviously 
afraid  of  his  sister  and  flung  his  niece  a  watery  wink  as  though 
to  implore  her  silence  as  to  his  various  misdemeanours. 

Brother  and  sister  shook  hands,  and  Maggie,  as  she  watched 
them,  was  surprised  to  feel  within  herself  a  certain  sympathy  with 


AUNT  ANNE  35 

her  uncle.  Aunt  Anne's  greeting  was  gentle  and  kind  but  in- 
finitely distant,  and  had  something  of  the  tenderness  with  which 
the  Pope  washes  the  feet  of  the  beggars  in  Rome. 

"  I'm  so  glad  that  you  were  here,"  she  said  in  her  soft  voice. 
"It  must  have  been  such  a  comfort  to  Maggie." 

"  He  has  been,  indeed,  Aunt  Anne,"  Maggie  broke  in  eagerly. 

Her  uncle  looked  at  her  with  great  surprise ;  after  his  behaviour 
of  last  night  he  had  not  expected  this.  Reassured,  he  began  a 
voluble  explanation  of  his  movements  and  plans,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  and  turning  one  boot  against  the  other. 

He  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  because  he  had  seen  neither  of  his 
sisters  for  a  very  long  time.  Then  he  wished  to  make  a  good 
impression  because  Maggie,  the  heiress,  would  be  of  importance 
now.  What  an  idiot  he  had  been  last  night.  What  had  he  done? 
He  could  remember  nothing.  It  was  evident  that  it  had  been 
nothing  very  bad — Maggie  bore  him  no  grudge — good  girl,  Maggie. 
He  felt  affectionate  towards  her  and  would  have  told  her  so  had 
her  aunt  not  been  present.  These  thoughts  underlay  his  rambling 
history.  He  was  aware  suddenly  that  his  audience  was  inatten- 
tive. He  saw,  indeed,  that  his  sister  was  standing  with  her  back 
half-turned,  gazing  on  to  the  shining  country  beyond  the  window. 
He  ceased  abruptly,  gave  his  niece  a  wink,  and  when  this  wa9 
unsuccessful,  muttering  a  few  words,  stumbled  out  of  the  room. 

The  whole  village  attended  the  funeral,  not  because  it  liked  the 
Rev.  Charles,  but  because  it  liked  funerals.  Maggie  was,  in  all 
probability,  the  only  person  present  who  thought  very  deeply  about 
the  late  Vicar  of  St.  Dreot's.  The  Rev.  Tom  Trefusis  who  con- 
ducted the  ceremony  was  a  large  red-faced  man  who  had  played 
Rugby  football  for  his  University  and  spent  most  of  his  energy 
over  the  development  of  cricket  and  football  clubs  up  end  down 
the  county.  He  could  not  be  expected  to  have  cared  very  greatly 
for  the  Rev.  Charles,  who  had  been  at  no  period  of  his  life  and 
in  no  possible  sense  of  the  word  a  sportsman.  As  he  conducted  the 
service  his  mind  speculated  as  to  the  next  vicar  (the  Rev.  Tom 
knew  an  excellent  fellow,  stroke  of  the  Cambridge  boat  in  '12,  who 
would  be  just  the  man)  the  possibility  of  the  frost  breaking  in 
time  for  the  inter-county  Rugby  match  at  Truxe,  the  immediate 
return  of  his  wife  from  London  (he  was  very  fond  of  his  wife), 
and,  lastly,  a  certain  cramp  in  the  stomach  that  sometimes  "  bowled 
him  over"  and  of  which  the  taking  of  a  funeral — "here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow  " — always  reminded  him. 

■  Wonder  how  long  I'll  last,"  he  thought  a9  he  stood  over  the 
grave  of  the  Rev.  Charles  and  let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  little 


36  THE  CAPTIVES 

white  gravestones  that  ran  almost  into  the  dark  wall  of  St. 
Dreot  Woods  as  though  they  were  trying  to  hide  themselves. 
"  Wish  the  frost  'ud  break — ground'll  be  as  hard  as  nails."  The 
soil  fell,  thump,  thump  upon  the  coffin.  Rooks  cawed  in  the  trees ; 
the  bell  tolled  its  cracked  note.  The  Rev.  Charles  was  crammed 
down  with  the  soil  by  the  eager  spades  of  the  sexton  and  his 
friend,  who  were  cold  and  wanted  a  drink. 

Maggie,  meanwhile,  watched  the  final  disappearance  of  her  father 
with  an  ever-growing  remorse.  Ever  since  her  declaration  to  her 
uncle  during  their  walk  yesterday  this  new  picture  of  her  father 
had  grown  before  her  eyes.  She  had  already  forgotten  many, 
many  things  that  might  now  have  made  her  resentful  or  at  least 
critical.  She  saw  him  as  a  figure  most  disastrously  misunder- 
stood. Without  any  sentimentality  in  her  vision  she  saw  him 
lonely,  proud,  reserved,  longing  for  her  sympathy  which  she  denied 
him.  His  greed  for  money  she  saw  suddenly  as  a  determination 
that  his  daughter  should  not  be  left  in  want.  All  those  years  he 
had  striven  and  his  apparent  harshness,  sharpness,  unkindness 
had  been  that  he  might  pursue  his  great  object. 

She  did  not  cry  (some  of  the  villagers  curiously  watching  her 
thought  her  a  hard-hearted  little  thing),  but  her  heart  was  full 
of  tenderness  as  she  stood  there,  seeing  the  humped  gTey  church 
that  was  part  of  her  life,  the  green  mounds  with  no  name,  the 
dark  wood,  the  grey  roofs  of  the  village  clustered  below  the  hill, 
hearing  the  bell,  the  rooks,  the  healthy  voice  of  Mr.  Trefusis,  the 
bark  of  some  distant  dog,  the  creak  of  some  distant  wheel. 

"  I  missed  my  chance,"  she  thought.  "  If  only  now  I  could  have 
told  him!" 

Her  aunt  stood  at  her  side  and  once  again  Maggie  felt  irritation 
at  her  composure.  "  After  all,  he  was  her  brother,"  she  thought. 
She  remembered  the  feeling  and  passion  with  which  her  aunt  had 
repeated  the  Twenty-third  Psalm.     She  was  puzzled. 

A  moment  of  shrinking  came  upon  her  as  she  thought  of  the 
coming  London  life. 

Then  the  service  was  over.  The  villagers,  with  that  inevitable 
disappointment  that  always  lingers  after  a  funeral,  went  to  their 
homes.  The  children  remained  until  night,  under  the  illusion 
that  it  was  Sunday. 

Maggie  spent  the  rest  of  the  day,  for  the  most  part,  alone  in 
her  room  and  thinking  of  her  father.  Her  bedroom,  an  attic 
with  a  sloping  roof,  contained  all  her  worldly  possessions.  In  part 
because  she  had  always  been  so  reserved  a  child,  in  part  because 
there  had  been  no  one  in  whom  she  might  confide  even  had  she 


AUNT  ANNE  37 

wished  it,  she  had  always  placed  an  intensity  of  feeling  around 
and  about  the  few  things  that  were  hers.  Her  library  was  very 
small,  but  this  did  not  distress  her  because  she  had  never  cared  for 
reading.  Upon  the  little  hanging  shelf  above  her  bed  (deal  wood 
painted  white,  with  blue  cornflowers)  were  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe, 
a  shabby  blue-covered  copy,  Ministering  Children,  Madame  How 
and  Lady  Why,  The  Imitation  of  Christ,  Robinson  Crusoe,  Mrs. 
Beeton's  Cookery  Book,  The  Holy  Bible,  and  The  Poems  of  Long- 
fellow. These  had  been  given  her  upon  various  Christmasses  and 
birthdays.  She  did  not  care  for  any  of  them  except  The  Imitation 
of  Christ  and  Robinson  Crusoe.  The  Bible  was  spoilt  for  her  by 
incessant  services  and  Sunday  School  classes;  The  Heir  of  Red- 
clyffe  and  Ministering  Children  she  found  absurdly  sentimental 
and  unlike  any  life  that  she  had  ever  known ;  Mrs.  Beeton  she  had 
never  opened,  and  Longfellow  and  Kingsley's  Natural  History  she 
found  dull.  For  Robinson  Crusoe  she  had  the  intense  human  sym- 
pathy that  all  lonely  people  feel  for  that  masterpiece.  The  Imita- 
tion pleased  her  by  what  she  would  have  called  its  common  sense. 
CSuch  a  passage,  for  example :  "  Oftentimes  something  lurketh 
within,  or  else  occurreth  from  without,  which  draweth  us  after  iU 
Many  secretly  seek  themselves  in  what  they  do,  and  know  it  not. 
"  They  seem  also  to  live  in  good  peace  of  mind,  when  things 
are  done  according  to  their  will  and  opinion ;  but  if  things  happen 
otherwise  than  they  desire,  they  are  straightway  moved  and  much 
vexed." 

And  behind  this  common  sense  she  did  seem  to  be  directly  in 
touch  with  some  one  whom  she  might  find  had  she  more  time  and 
friends  to  advise  her.  She  was  conscious  in  her  lonely  hours,  that 
nothing  gave  her  such  a  feeling  of  company  as  did  this  little 
battered  red  book,  and  she  felt  that  that  friendliness  might  one 
day  advance  to  some  greater  intimacy.  About  these  things  she  was 
intensely  reserved  and  she  spoke  of  them  to  no  human  being. 

Even  for  the  books  for  whose  contents  she  did  not  care  she  had 
a  kindly  feeling.  So  often  had  they  looked  down  upon  her  when 
she  sat  there  exasperated,  angry  at  her  own  tears,  rebellious,  after 
some  scene  with  her  father.  No  other  place  but  this  room  had 
seen  these  old  agonies  of  hers.  She  would  be  sorry  after  all  to  leave 
it. 

There  were  not  many  things  beside  the  books.  Two  bowls  of 
blue  Glebeshire  pottery,  cheap  things  but  precious,  a  box  plastered 
with  coloured  shells,  an  amber  bead  necklace,  a  blue  leather  writing- 
case,  a  photograph  of  her  father  as  a  young  clergyman  with  a  beard 
and  whiskers,  a  faded  daguerreotype  of  her  mother,  last,  but  by 


38  THE  CAPTIVES 

no  means  least,  a  small  black  lacquer  musical-box  that  played  two 
tunes,  "  Weel  may  the  Keel  row  "  and  "  John  Peel," — these  were 
her  worldly  possessions. 

She  sat  there ;  as  the  day  closed  down,  the  trees  were  swept  into 
the  night,  the  wind  rose  in  the  dark  wood,  the  winter's  moon  crept 
pale  and  cold  into  the  sky,  snow  began  to  fall,  at  first  thinly,  then 
in  a  storm,  hiding  the  moon,  flinging  the  fields  and  roads  into  a 
white  shining  splendour;  the  wind  died  and  the  stars  peeped  be- 
tween the  flakes  of  whirling  snow. 

She  sat  without  moving,  accusing  her  heart  of  hardness,  of  un- 
kindness.  She  seemed  to  herself  then  deserving  of  every  punish- 
ment. u  If  I  had  only  gone  to  him,"  she  thought  again  and  again. 
She  remembered  how  she  had  kept  apart  from  him,  enclosed  her- 
self in  a  reserve  that  he  should  never  break.  She  remembered  the 
times  when  he  had  scolded  her,  coldly,  bitterly,  and  she  had  stood, 
her  face  as  a  rock,  her  heart  beating  but  her  body  without  move- 
ment, then  had  turned  and  gone  silently  from  the  room.  All  her 
wicked,  cold  heart  that  in  some  strange  way  cared  for  love  but 
could  not  make  those  movements  towards  others  that  would  show 
that  it  cared.  What  was  it  in  her?  Would  she  always,  through 
life,  miss  the  things  for  which  she  longed  through  her  coldness 
and  obstinacy? 

She  took  her  father's  photograph,  stared  at  it,  gazed  into  it, 
held  it  in  an  agony  of  remorse.  She  shivered  in  the  cold  of  her 
room  but  did  not  know  it.  Her  candle,  caught  in  some  draught, 
blew  out,  and  instantly  the  white  world  without  leapt  in  upon  her 
and  her  room  was  lit  with  a  strange  unearthly  glow.  She  saw 
nothing  but  her  father.  At  last  she  fell  asleep  in  the  chair,  clutch- 
ing in  her  hand  the  photograph. 

Thus  her  aunt  found  her,  later  in  the  evening.  She  was  touched 
by  the  figure,  the  shabby  black  frock,  the  white  tired  face.  She 
had  been  honestly  disappointed  in  her  niece,  disappointed  in  her 
plainness,  in  her  apparent  want  of  heart,  in  her  silence  and  morose- 
ness.  Mathew  had  told  her  of  the  girl's  outburst  to  him  against 
her  father,  and  this  had  seemed  to  her  shocking  upon  the  very  day 
after  that  father's  death.  Now  when  she  saw  the  photograph 
clenched  in  Maggie's  hand  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  said, 
"  Maggie !  dear  Maggie !  "  and  woke  her.  Maggie,  stirring  saw  her 
aunt's  slender  figure  and  delicate  face  standing  in  the  snowlight 
as  though  she  had  been  truly  a  saint  from  heaven. 

Maggie's  first  impulse  was  to  rise  up,  fling  her  arms  around 
her  aunt's  neck  and  hug  her.  Had  she  done  that  the  history  of 
her  life  might  have  been  changed.    Her  natural  shyness  checked 


AUNT  ANNE  39 

her  impulse.  She  got  up,  the  photograph  dropped  from  her  hand, 
she  smiled  a  little  and  then  said  awkwardly,  "  I've  been  asleep. 
Do  you  want  me?    I'll  come  down." 

Her  aunt  drew  her  towards  her. 

"  Maggie,  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  feel  lonely  any  more.  Think 
of  me  and  your  Aunt  Elizabeth  as  your  friends  who  will  always 
care  for  you.    You  must  never  be  lonely  again." 

Maggie's  whole  heart  responded.  She  felt  its  wild  beating  but 
she  could  do  nothing,  could  say  nothing.  Her  body  stiffened.  In 
spite  of  herself  she  withdrew  herself.  Her  face  reddened,  then 
was  pale. 

"  Thank  you,  aunt,"  was  all  she  could  say. 

Her  aunt  moved  away.    Silently  they  went  downstairs  together. 

At  about  ten  the  next  morning  they  were  seated  in  the  dining- 
room — Aunt  Anne,  Uncle  Mathew,  Maggie,  and  Mr.  Brassy.  Mr. 
Brassy  was  speaking: 

"  I'm  afraid,  Miss  Cardinal,  that  there  can  be  no  question  about 
the  legality  of  this.  It  has  been  duly  witnessed  and  signed.  I 
regret  extremely  .  .  .  but  as  you  can  well  understand,  I  was 
quite  unable  to  prevent.  With  the  exception  of  a  legacy  of  £300 
to  Miss  Maggie  Cardinal  everything  goes  to  Miss  Ellen  Harmer, 
'  To  whom  I  owe  more  than  I  can  ever  possibly — ' " 

"  Thank  you,"  interrupted  Aunt  Anne.  "  This  is,  I  think,  the 
woman  who  has  been  cook  here  during  the  last  four  years  ? " 

"  About  five,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Brassy  softly. 

Uncle  Mathew  was  upon  his  feet,  trembling. 

"  This  is  monstrous,"  he  stuttered,  u  absolutely  monstrous.  Of 
course  an  appeal  will  be  made — undue  influence — the  most 
abominable  thing." 

Maggie  watched  them  all  as  though  the  whole  business  were 
far  from  herself.  She  sat  there,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap, 
looking  at  the  mantelpiece  with  the  ugly  marble  clock,  the  letter 
clip  with  old  soiled  letters  in  it,  the  fat  green  vase  with  dusty 
everlastings.  Just  as  on  the  night  when  her  uncle  had  come  into 
her  room  she  had  fancied  that  some  one  spoke  to  her,  so  now  she 
seemed  to  hear: 

"  Ah,  that's  a  nasty  knock  for  you — a  very  nasty  knock." 

Her  father  had  left  all  his  money,  with  the  exception  of  £300, 
to  Ellen  the  cook;  Maggie  did  not,  for  a  moment,  speculate  as  to 
the  probable  total  amount.  Three  hundred  pounds  seemed  to 
her  a  very  large  sum — it  would  at  any  rate  give  her  something  to 
begin  life  upon — but  the  thing  that  seized  and  held  her  was  the 
secret  friendship  that  must  have  existed  between  her  father  and 


40  THE  CAPTIVES 

Ellen — secret  friendship  was  the  first  form  that  the  relationship 
assumed  for  her.  She  saw  Ellen,  red  of  face  with  little  eyes  and 
a  flat  nose  upon  which  flies  used  to  settle,  a  fat,  short  neck,  the 
wheezings  and  the  pantings,  the  stumping  walk,  the  great  broad 
back.  And  she  saw  her  father — first  as  the  tall,  dirty  man  whom 
she  used  to  know,  with  the  shiny  black  trousers,  the  untidy  beard, 
the  frowning  eyes,  the  nails  bitten-^to  the  quick,  the  ragged  shirt- 
cuffs — then  as  that  veiled  shape  below  the  clothes,  the  lift  of  the 
sheet  above  the  toes,  the  loins,  the  stomach,  the  beard  neatly 
brushed,  the  closed  yellow  eyelids,  the  yellow  forehead,  the  rats 
with  their  gleaming  eyes.  In  a  kind  of  terror  as  though  she  were 
being  led  against  her  will  into  some  disgusting  chamber  where 
the  skulls  were  stale  and  the  sights  indecent,  she  saw  the  friend- 
ship of  those  two — Ellen  the  cook  and  her  father. 

Young,  inexperienced  though  she  was,  she  was  old  already  in  a 
certain  crude  knowledge  of  facts.  It  could  not  be  said  that  she 
traced  to  their  ultimate  hiding-place  the  relations  of  her  father 
and  the  woman,  but  in  some  relation,  ugly,  sordid,  degraded,  she 
saw  those  two  figures  united.  Many,  many  little  things  came  to 
her  mind  as  she  sat  there,  moments  when  the  cook  had  breathlessly 
and  in  a  sudden  heat  betrayed  some  unexpected  agitation,  moments 
when  her  father  had  shown  confusion,  moments  when  she  had 
fancied  whispers,  laughter  behind  walls,  scurrying  feet.  She  en- 
twined desperately  her  hands  together  as  pictures  developed  behind 
her  eyes. 

Ah!  but  she  was  ashamed,  most  bitterly  ashamed! 

The  rest  of  the  interview  came  to  her  only  dimly.  She  knew 
that  Uncle  Mathew  was  still  upon  his  feet  protesting,  that  her 
aunt's  face  was  cold  and  wore  a  look  of  distressed  surprise  as 
though  some  one  had  suddenly  been  rude  to  her. 

From  very,  very  far  away  came  Mr.  Brassy's  voice :  "  I  was 
aware  that  this  could  not  be  agreeable,  Miss  Cardinal.  But  I  am 
afraid  that,  under  the  circumstances,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done. 
As  to  undue  influence,  I  think  that  I  should  warn  you,  Mr.  Cardi- 
nal, that  there  could  be  very  little  hope  .  .  .  and  of  course  the 
expense    ...    if  I  may  advise  you    ..." 

The  voice  sank  away  again,  the  room  faded,  the  air  was  still 
and  painted;  like  figures  on  a  stage  acting  before  an  audience  of 
one  Maggie  saw  those  grotesque  persons.    .    .    . 

She  did  not  speak  one  word  during  the  whole  affair. 

After  a  time  she  saw  that  Mr.  Brassy  was  not  in  the  room.  Her 
aunt  was  speaking  to  her: 

"  Maggie,  dear — I'm  so  very  sorry — so  very  sorry.     But  you 


AUNT  ANNE  41 

know  that  you  will  come  to  us  and  find  a  home  there.  You  mustn't 
think  about  the  money " 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  arose,  almost  brushing  her  aunt 
aside. 

"  Ah !  that's  not  it — that's  not  it !  "  she  cried.  Then,  recovering 
herself  a  little,  she  went  on — "  It's  all  right,  Aunt  Anne.  I'm 
all  right.  I'm  going  out  for  a  little.  If  I'm  not  back  for  lunch, 
don't  wait.    Something  cold,  anything,  tell  Ellen " 

At  the  sudden  mention  of  that  name  she  stopped,  coloured  a 
little,  turned  away  and  left  the  room.  In  the  hall  she  nearly 
ran  against  the  cook.  The  woman  was  standing  there,  motionless, 
breathing  deeply,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dining-room.  When  she 
saw  Maggie,  she  moved  as  though  she  would  speak,  then  some- 
thing in  the  girl's  face  checked  her.  She  drew  back  into  the 
shadow. 

Maggie  left  the  house. 

The  brother  and  sister,  remaining  in  the  room,  walked  towards 
one  another  as  though  driven  by  some  common  need  of  sympathy 
and  protection  against  an  outside  power.  Mathew  Cardinal  felt 
a  genuine  indignation  that  had  but  seldom  figured  in  his  life  before. 
He  had  hated  his  brother,  always,  and  never  so  greatly  as  at  the 
moments  of  the  man's  reluctant  charity  towards  him.  But  now, 
in  the  first  clean  uplift  of  his  indignation,  there  was  no  self-con- 
gratulation at  the  justification  of  his  prophecies. 

"  I  knew  him  for  what  he  was.  But  that  he  could  do  this ! 
He  meant  it  to  hurt,  too — that  was  like  him  all  over.  He  had 
us  in  his  mind.  I  wish  I'd  never  taken  a  penny  from  him.  I'd 
rather  have  starved.  Yes,  I  would — far  rather.  I've  been  bad 
enough,  but  never  a  thing  like  that " 

His  sister  said  quietly: 

"  He's  dead,  Mathew.  We  can  do  nothing.  Maggie,  poor 
child " 

He  approached  for  an  instant  more  nearly  than  he  had  ever 
done.    He  took  her  hand.    There  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  It's  good  of  you,  Anne — to  take  her." 

She  withdrew  her  hand — very  gently. 

"  I  wish  we'd  taken  her  before.  She  must  have  had  a  terrible 
time  here.    I'd  never  realised    ..." 

He  stood  away  from  her  near  the  window,  feeling  suddenly 
ashamed  of  his  impetuosity. 

"  She's  a  strange  girl,"  Anne  Cardinal  went  on.  "  She  didn't 
seem  to  feel  this — or  anything.  She  hasn't,  I  think,  much  heart. 
I'm  afraid  she  may  find  it  a  little  difficult  with  us " 


42  THE  CAPTIVES 

Mathew  was  uncomfortable  now.  His  mood  had  changed;  he 
was  sullen.  His  sister  always  made  him  feel  like  a  disgraced  dog. 
He  shuffled  on  his  feet. 

"  She's  a  good  girl,"  he  muttered  at  last,  and  then  with  a  con- 
fused look  about  him,  as  though  he  were  searching  for  something, 
he  stumbled  out  of  the  room. 

Meanwhile  Maggie  went  on  her  way.  She  chose  instinctively 
her  path,  through  the  kitchen  garden  at  the  back  of  the  village, 
down  the  hill  by  the  village  street,  over  the  little  bridge  that 
crossed  the  rocky  stream  of  the  Dreot,  and  up  the  steep  hill  that 
led  on  to  the  outskirts  of  Eothin  Moor.  The  day,  although  she 
had  no  eyes  for  it,  was  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  of  misty 
warmth  that  surprise  the  Glebeshire  frosts.  The  long  stretch  of 
the  moor  was  enwrapped  by  a  thin  silver  network  of  haze;  the 
warmth  of  the  sun,  seen  so  dimly  that  it  was  like  a  shadow  re- 
fleeted  in  a  mirror,  struck  to  the  very  heart  of  the  soil.  Where 
but  yesterday  there  had  been  iron  frost  there  was  now  soft  yielding 
earth;  it  was  as  though  the  heat  of  the  central  fires  of  the  world 
pressed  dimly  upward  through  many  miles  of  heavy  weighted  re- 
sistance, straining  to  the  light  and  air.  Larks,  lost  in  golden  mist, 
circled  in  space;  Maggie  could  feel  upon  her  face  and  neck  and 
hands  the  warm  moisture ;  the  soil  under  her  feet,  now  hard,  now 
soft,  seemed  to  tremble  with  some  happy  anticipation;  the  moor, 
wrapped  in  its  misty  colour,  had  no  bounds;  the  world  was  limit- 
less space  with  hidden  streams,  hidden  suns. 

The  moor  had  a  pathetic  attraction  for  her,  because  not  very  long 
ago  a  man  and  a  woman  had  been  lost,  only  a  few  steps  from 
Borhedden  Farm,  in  the  mist — lost  their  way  and  been  frozen 
during  the  night.    Poor  things!  lovers,  perhaps,  they  had  been. 

Maggie  felt  that  here  she  could  walk  for  miles  and  miles  and 
that  there  was  nothing  to  stop  her;  the  clang  of  a  gate,  a  house, 
a  wall,  a  human  voice  was  intolerable  to  her. 

Her  first  thought  as  she  went  forward  was  disgust  at  her  own 
weakness;  once  again  she  had  been  betrayed  by  her  feelings.  She 
could  remember  no  single  time  when  they  had  not  betrayed  her. 
She  recalled  now  with  an  intolerable  self-contempt  her  thoughts 
of  her  father  at  the  time  of  the  funeral  and  the  hours  that  fol- 
lowed. It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  had  only  softened  towards 
his  memory  because  she  had  believed  that  he  had  left  her  money 
— and  now,  when  she  saw  that  he  had  treated  her  contemptuously, 
she  found  him  once  again  the  cruel,  mean  figure  that  she  had 
before  thought  him. 

For  that  she  most  bitterly,  with  an  intensity  that  only  her  loneli- 


AUNT  ANNE  43 

ness  could  have  given  her,  despised  herself.  And  yet  something 
else  in  her  knew  that  that  reproach  was  not  a  true  one.  She  had 
really  softened  towards  him  only  because  she  had  felt  that  she  had 
behaved  badly  towards  him,  and  the  discovery  now  that  he  had 
behaved  badly  towards  her  did  not  alter  her  own  original  behaviour. 
She  did  not  analyse  all  this ;  she  only  knew  that  there  were  in  her 
longings  for  affection,  a  desire  to  be  loved,  an  aching  for  com- 
panionship, and  that  these  things  must  always  be  kept  down,  fast 
hidden  within  her.  She  realised  her  loneliness  now  with  a  fierce, 
proud,  almost  exultant  independence.  No  more  tears,  no  more 
leaning  upon  others,  no  more  expecting  anything  from  anybody. 
She  was  not  dramatic  in  her  new  independence;  she  did  not  cry 
defiance  to  the  golden  mist  or  the  larks  or  the  hidden  sun;  she 
only  walked  on  and  on,  stumping  forward  in  her  clumsy  boots, 
her  eyes  hard  and  unseeing,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
back. 

Her  expectation  of  happiness  in  her  opening  life  that  had  been 
so  strong  with  her  that  other  day  when  she  had  looked  down  upon 
Polchester  was  gone.  She  expected  nothing,  she  wanted  nothing. 
Her  only  thought  was  that  she  would  never  yield  to  any  one,  never 
care  for  any  one,  never  give  to  any  one  the  opportunity  of  touch- 
ing her.  At  moments  through  the  mist  came  the  figure  of  the  cook, 
stout,  florid,  triumphant.  Maggie  regarded  her  contemptuously. 
"  You  cannot  touch  me,"  she  thought.  Of  her  father  she  would 
never  think  again.  With  both  hands  she  flung  all  her  memories 
of  him  into  the  mist  to  be  lost  for  ever.    .    .    . 

She  came  suddenly  upon  a  lonely  farm-house.  She  knew  the 
place,  Borhedden ;  it  had  often  been  a  favourite  walk  of  hers  from 
the  Vicarage  to  Borhedden.  The  farmer  let  rooms  there  and,  be- 
cause the  house  was  very  old,  some  of  the  rooms  were  fine,  with 
high  ceilings,  thick  stone  walls,  and  even  some  good  panelling. 
The  view  too  was  superb,  across  to  the  Broads  and  the  Molecatcher, 
or  back  to  the  Dreot  Woods,  or  to  the  dim  towers  of  Polchester 
Cathedral.  The  air  here  was  fine — one  of  the  healthiest  spots  in 
Glebeshire. 

The  farm  to-day  was  transfigured  by  the  misty  glow;  cows  and 
horses  could  be  faintly  seen,  ricks  burnt  with  a  dim  fire.  Some- 
where dripping  water  falling  on  to  stone  gave  a  vocal  spirit  to  the 
obscurity.  The  warm  air  seemed  to  radiate  about  the  house  like  a 
flame  that  is  obscured  by  sunlight. 

The  stealthy  movements  of  the  animals,  the  dripping  of  the 
water,  were  the  only  sounds.  To  Maggie  the  house  seemed  to 
say  something,  something  comforting  and  reassuring. 


44  THE  CAPTIVES 

Standing  there,  she  registered  her  vow  that  through  all  her 
life  she  would  care  for  no  one.    No  one  should  touch  her. 

Had  there  been  an  observer  he  might  have  found  some  food 
for  his  irony  in  the  contemplation  of  that  small,  insignificant  figure 
so  ignorant  of  life  and  so  defiant  of  it.  He  would  have  found 
perhaps  something  pathetic  also.  Maggie  thought  neither  of 
irony  nor  of  pathos,  but  turned  homewards  with  her  mouth  set, 
her  eyes  grave,  her  heart  controlled. 

As  she  walked  back  the  sun  broke  through  the  mist,  and,  turn- 
ing, she  could  see  Borhedden  like  a  house  on  fire,  its  windows  blaz- 
ing against  the  sky. 

It  was  natural  that  her  aunt  should  wish  to  return  to  London 
as  soon  as  possible.  For  one  thing,  Ellen  the  cook  had  packed 
her  clothes  and  retired  to  some  place  in  the  village,  there  to  await 
the  departure  of  the  defeated  family.  Then  the  house  was  not  only 
unpleasant  by  reason  of  its  atmosphere  and  associations,  but  there 
were  also  the  definite  discomforts  of  roofs  through  which  the  rain 
dripped  and  floors  that  swayed  beneath  one's  tread.  Moreover, 
Aunt  Elizabeth  did  not  care  to  be  left  alone  in  the  London  house. 

Uncle  Mathew  left  on  the  day  after  the  funeral.  He  had  one 
little  last  conversation  with  Maggie. 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  happy  in  London,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  know  you'll  do  what  you  can  to  help  your  aunts."  Then 
he  went  on  more  nervously.  "  Think  of  me  sometimes.  I  shan't 
be  able  to  come  and  see  you  very  often,  you  know — too  busy.  But 
I  shall  like  to  know  that  you're  thinking  about  me." 

Maggie's  new-found  resolution  taken  so  defiantly  upon  the  moor 
was  suddenly  severely  tested.  She  felt  as  though  her  uncle  were 
leaving  her  to  a  world  of  enemies.  She  drove  down  her  sense  of 
desolation,  and  he  saw  nothing  but  her  quiet  composure. 

"  Of  course  I'll  think  of  you,"  she  answered.  "  And  you  must 
come  often." 

"  They  don't  like  me,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  towards  where 
Aunt  Anne  might  be  supposed  to  be  waiting.  "  It's  not  my  fault 
altogether — but  they  have  severe  ideas.    It's  religion,  of  course." 

She  suddenly  seemed  to  see  in  his  eyes  some  terror  or  despair, 
as  though  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  drop  "  this  time  " — farther 
than  ever  before. 

She  caught  his  arm.  "  Uncle  Mathew,  what  are  you  going  to 
do?  Where  will  you  live?  Take  my  three  hundred  pounds  if  it 
will  help  you.    I  don't  want  it  just  now.    Keep  it  for  me." 

He  had  a  moment  of  resolute,  clear-sighted  honesty.    "  No,  my 


AUNT  ANNE  45 

dear,  if  I  had  it  it  would  go  in  a  week.  I  can't  keep  money; 
I  never  could.  I'm  really  better  without  any.  I'm  all  right. 
You'll  never  get  rid  of  me — don't  you  fear.  We've  got  more  in 
common  than  you  think,  although  you're  a  good  girl  and  I've 
gone  to  pieces  a  bit.  All  the  same  there's  plenty  worse  than  me. 
Your  aunt,  for  all  her  religion,  is  damned  difficult  for  a  plain 
man  to  get  along  with.  Most  people  would  find  me  better  company, 
after  all.     One  last  word,  Maggie." 

He  bent  down  and  whispered  to  her.  "  Don't  you  go  getting 
caught  by  that  sweep  who  runs  their  chapel  up  in  London.  He's 
a  humbug  if  ever  there  was  one — you  mark  my  words.  I  know  a 
thing  or  two.  He's  done  your  aunts  a  lot  of  harm,  and  he'll  have 
his  dirty  fingers  on  you  if  you  let  him." 

So  he  departed,  his  last  kiss  mingled  with  the  usual  aroma  of 
whisky  and  tobacco,  his  last  attitude,  as  he  turned  away,  that 
strange  confusion  of  assumed  dignity  and  natural  genial  stu- 
pidity that  was  so  especially  his. 

Maggie  turned,  with  all  her  new  defiant  resolution,  to  face  the 
world  alone  with  her  Aunt  Anne.  Throughout  the  next  day  she 
was  busied  with  collecting  her  few  possessions,  with  her  farewells 
to  the  one  or  two  people  in  the  village  who  had  been  kind  to  her, 
and  with  little  sudden,  almost  surreptitious  visits  to  corners  of  the 
house,  the  garden,  the  wood  where  she  had  at  one  time  or  another 
been  happy. 

As  the  evening  fell  and  a  sudden  storm  of  rain  leapt  up  from 
beneath  the  hill  and  danced  about  the  house,  she  had  a  wild  long- 
ing to  stay — to  stay  at  any  cost  and  in  any  discomfort.  London 
had  no  longer  interest,  but  only  terror  and  dismay.  She  ran  out 
into  the  dark  and  rain-drenched  garden,  felt  her  way  to  an  old 
and  battered  seat  that  had  seen  in  older  days  dolls'  tea-parties  and 
the  ravages  of  bad-temper,  stared  from  it  across  the  kitchen- 
garden  to  the  lights  of  the  village,  that  seemed  to  rock  and  shiver 
in  the  wind  and  rain. 

She  stared  passionately  at  the  lights,  her  heart  beating  as  though 
it  would  suffocate  her.  At  last,  her  clothes  soaked  with  the  storm, 
her  hair  dripping,  she  returned  to  the  house.  Her  aunt  was  in  the 
hall. 

"  My  dear  Maggie,  where  have  you  been  ? "  in  a  voice  that  was 
kind  but  aghast. 

"  In  the  garden,"  said  Maggie,  hating  her  aunt. 

"But  it's  pouring  with  rain!  You're  soaking!  You  must 
change  at  once!    Did  you  go  out  to  find  something?" 

Maggie  made  no  answer.     She  stood  there,  her  face  sulky  and 


I 


46  THE  CAPTIVES 

closed,  the  water  drippng  from  her.  Afterwards,  as  she  changed 
her  clothes,  she  reflected  that  there  had  been  many  occasions  during 
these  three  days  when  her  aunt  would  have  felt  irritation  with  her 
had  she  known  her  longer.  She  had  always  realised  that  she  was 
careless,  that  when  she  should  be  thinking  of  one  thing  she  thought 
of  another,  that  her  housekeeping  and  management  of  shops  and 
servants  had  been  irregular  and  undisciplined,  but  until  now  she 
had  not  sharply  surveyed  her  weaknesses.  Since  the  coming  of 
her  aunt  she  had  been  involved  in  a  perfect  network  of  little 
blunders ;  she  had  gone  out  of  the  room  without  shutting  the  door, 
had  started  into  the  village  on  an  errand,  and  then,  when  she  was 
there,  had  forgotten  what  it  was;  there  had  been  holes  in  her 
stockings  and  rents  in  her  blouses.  After  Ellen's  departure  she 
had  endeavoured  to  help  in  the  kitchen,  but  had  made  so  many 
mistakes  that  Aunt  Anne  and  the  kitchen-maid  had  been  compelled 
to  banish  her.  She  now  wondered  how  during  so  many  years  she 
had  run  the  house  at  all,  but  then  her  father  had  cared  about 
nothing  so  that  money  was  not  wasted.  She  knew  that  Aunt 
Anne  excused  her  mistakes  just  now  because  of  the  shock  of  her 
father's  death  and  the  events  that  followed  it,  but  Maggie  knew 
also  that  these  faults  were  deep  in  her  character.  She  couldx 
explain  it  quite  simply  to  herself  by  saying  that  behind  the  things  [ 
that  she  saw  there  was  always  something  that  she  did  not  see,  I 
something  of  the  greatest  importance  and  just  beyond  her  vision;  I 
in  her  efforts  to  catch  this  farther  thing  she  forgot  what  was  im- 
mediately in  front  of  her.  It  had  always  been  so.  Since  a  tiny 
child  she  had  always  supposed  that  the  shapes  and  forms  with 
which  she  was  presented  were  only  masks  to  hide  the  real  thing. 
Such  a  view  might  lend  interest  to  life,  but  it  certainly  made  one 
careless;  and  although  Uncle  Mathew  might  understand  it  and 
put  it  down  to  the  Cardinal  imagination,  she  instinctively  knew 
that  Aunt  Anne,  unless  Maggie  definitely  attributed  it  to  religion, 
would  be  dismayed  and  even,  if  it  persisted,  angered.  Maggie  had 
not,  after  all,  the  excuse  and  defence  of  being  a  dreamy  child. 
With  her  square  body  and  plain  face,  her  clear,  unspeculative  eyes, 
her  stolid  movements,  she  could  have  no  claim  to  dreams.  With 
a  sudden  desolate  pang  Maggie  suspected  that  Uncle  Mathew  was 
the  only  person  who  would  ever  understand  her.  Well,  then,  she 
must  train  herself. 

She  would  close  doors,  turn  out  lights,  put  things  back  where 
she  found  them,  mend  her  clothes,  keep  accounts.  Indeed  a  new 
life  was  beginning  for  her.  She  felt,  with  a  sudden  return  to  the 
days  before  her  walk  on  the  moor,  that  if  only  her  aunts  would 


AUNT  ANNE  47 

love  her  she  would  improve  much  more  rapidly.  And  then  with 
her  new  independence  she  assured  herself  that  if  they  did  not  love 
her  she  most  certainly  would  not  love  them.    .   .    . 

That  night  she  sat  opposite  her  aunt  beside  the  fire.  The  house 
lay  dead  and  empty  behind  them.  Aunt  Anne  was  so  neat  in  her 
thin  black  silk,  her  black  shining  hair,  her  pale  pointed  face,  a 
little  round  white  locket  rising  and  falling  ever  so  slowly  with  the 
lift  of  her  breast.  There  were  white  frills  to  her  sleeves,  and  she 
read  a  slim  book  bound  in  purple  leather.  Her  body  never 
moved;  only  once  and  again  her  thin,  delicate  hand  ever  so  gently 
lifted,  turned  a  page,  then  settled  down  on  to  her  lap  once  more. 
She  never  raised  her  eyes. 

The  fire  was  heavy  and  sullen ;  the  wind  howled ;  that  old  familiar 
beating  of  the  twigs  upon  the  pane  seemed  to  reiterate  to  Maggie 
that  this  was  her  last  evening.  She  pretended  to  read.  She  had 
found  a  heavy  gilt  volume  of  Paradise  Lost  with  Dore's  pictures. 
She  read  these  words: 

Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  Continent 
Lies  dark  and  wilde,  beat  with  perpetual  storms 
Of  whirlwind  and  dire  hail ;  which  on  firm  land 
Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin  seems 
Of  ancient  pile;  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice, 
A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bay 

Betwixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old, 
Where  armies  whole  have  sunk ;  the  parching  Air 
Burns  froze,  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of  Fire. 

Further  again,  words  caught  her  eye. 
Thus  roving  on 
In  confused  march  forlorn,  th'  adventurous  Bands     * 
With  shuddering  horror  pale,  and  eyes  aghast 
Viewed  first  their  lamentable  lot,  and  found 
•No  rest;  through  many  a  dark  and  drearie  Vaile 
They  passed,  and  many  a  Region  dolorous. 
O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alpe, 
Rocks,  Caves,  Lakes,  Fens,  Bogs,  Dens  and  shades  of  death, 
A  Universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good 
Where  all  life  dies,  death  lives,  and  nature  breaks 
Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 
Abominable,  inutterable,  and  worse 
Than  Fables  yet  have  feigned,  or  fear  conceived, 
Gorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimseras  dire. 


48  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  did  not  care  for  reading,  most  especially  she  did  not  care 
for  poetry,  but  to-night  she  saw  the  picture.  Up  to  the  very  bounds 
of  the  house  this  waste  country,  filled  with  beasts  of  prey,  animals 
with  fiery  eyes  and  incredible  names,  the  long  stretch  of  snow 
and  ice,  the  black  water  with  no  stars  reflected  in  it,  the  wind. 

A  coal  crashed  in  the  fire;  she  gave  a  little  cry. 

"My  dear,  what  is  it?"  said  Aunt  Anne.  Then,  with  a  little 
shake  of  her  shoulders,  she  added :  il  There's  a  horrid  draught. 
Perhaps  you  forgot  to  close  the  kitchen-door  when  you  came  away, 
Maggie  dear." 

Maggie  flushed.  Of  course  she  had  forgotten.  She  left  the  room, 
crossed  the  hall.  Yes,  there  was  the  door,  wide  open.  She  locked 
it,  the  place  was  utterly  cold  and  desolate.  She  closed  the  door, 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  little  hall. 

"  I  don't  care  what's  going  to  happen ! "  she  cried  aloud.  So 
ended  her  life  in  that  house. 


CHAPTER  in 

THE   LONDON   HOUSE 

IT  was  strange  after  this  that  the  start  on  the  London  journey 
should  be  so  curiously  unexciting;  it  was  perhaps  the  presence 
of  Aunt  Anne  that  reduced  everything  to  an  unemotional  level. 
Maggie  wondered  as  she  sat  in  the  old  moth-eaten,  whisky-smelling 
cab  whether  her  Aunt  Anne  was  ever  moved  about  anything.  Then 
something  occurred  that  showed  her  that,  as  yet,  she  knew  very 
little  about  her  aunt.  As,  clamping  down  the  stony  hill,  they  had 
a  last  glimpse  at  the  corner  of  the  two  Vicarage  chimneys,  look- 
ing above  the  high  hedge  like  a  pair  of  inquisitive  lunatics. 
Maggie  choked.  She  pressed  her  hands  together,  pushed  her 
hair  from  her  face  and,  in  so  doing,  touched  her  black 
hat. 

"  Your  hat's  crooked,  Maggie  dear,"  said  her  aunt  gently.  The 
girl's  hot  hands  clutched  the  soft  packet  of  sandwiches  and  a  little 
black  handbag  that  yesterday  Aunt  Anne  had  bought  for  her  in 
the  village.  It  was  a  shabby  little  bag,  and  had  strange  habits  of 
opening  when  it  was  not  expected  to  do  so  and  remaining  shut 
when  something  was  needed  from  it.  It  gaped  now  and,  just  as 
the  cab  climbed  Cator  Hill,  it  fell  forward  and  flung  the  contents 
on  to  the  floor.  Maggie,  blushing,  looked  up  expecting  a  reproof. 
She  saw  that  her  aunt's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  view;  as  upon 
the  day  of  her  arrival,  so  now.  Her  face  wore  a  look  of  rapture. 
She  drank  it  in. 

Maggie  also  took  the  last  joy  of  the  familiar  scene.  The 
Vicarage,  like  a  grey  crouching  cat,  lay  basking  on  the  green 
hill.  The  sunlight  flooded  the  dark  wood ;  galleons  of  clouds  rolled 
like  lumbering  vessels  across  the  blue  sky. 

"  It's  lovely,  isn't  it  ? "  whispered  Maggie. 

"Beautiful — beautiful,"  sighed  her  aunt. 

"I've  always  loved  just  this  view.  I've  often  walked  here  just 
to  see  it,"  Maggie  said. 

Aunt  Anne  sat  back  in  her  seat 

"  It's  been  hard  for  me  always  to  live  in  London.  I  love  the 
country  so." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Maggie,  passionately. 

49 


50  THE  CAPTIVES 

For  a  moment  they  were  together,  caught  up  by  the  same 
happiness. 

Then  Aunt  Anne  said: 

"  Why,  your  bag,  dear !     The  things  are  all  about  the  place." 

Maggie  bent  down.  When  she  looked  up  again  they  had  dipped 
down  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 

Maggie  had  only  once  in  all  her  life  been  in  a  train,  but  on  this 
present  occasion  she  did  not  find  it  very  thrilling.  It  was  rather 
like  being  in  anything  else,  and  her  imagination  exercised  itself 
upon  the  people  in  the  carriage  rather  than  the  scenery  outside. 
She  was  at  first  extremely  self-conscious  and  fancied  that  every 
one  whispered  about  her.  Then,  lulled  by  the  motion  of  the  train 
and  the  warmth,  she  slept;  she  was  more  deeply  exhausted  by  the 
events  of  the  last  week  than  she  knew,  and  throughout  the  day 
she  slumbered,  woke,  and  slumbered  again. 

Quite  suddenly  she  awoke  with  a  definite  shock  to  a  new  world. 
Evening  had  come;  there  were  lights  that  rushed  up  to  the  train, 
stared  in  at  the  window,  and  rushed  away  again.  On  every  side 
things  seemed  to  change  places  in  a  general  post,  trees  and  houses, 
hedges  and  roads,  all  lit  by  an  evening  moon  and  wrapt  in  a  white 
and  wavering  mist.  Then  the  town  was  upon  them,  quite  in- 
stantly ;  streets  ran  like  ribbons  into  grey  folds  of  buildings ;  rows 
of  lamps,  scattered  at  first,  drew  into  a  single  point  of  dancing 
flame;  towers  and  chimneys  seemed  to  jump  from  place  to  place 
as  though  they  were  trying  to  keep  in  time  with  the  train;  a  bell 
rang  monotonously;  wreaths  of  smoke  rose  lazily  against  the  stars 
and  fell  again. 

When  at  last  she  found  herself,  a  tiny  figure,  standing  upon 
the  vast  platform  under  the  high  black  dome,  the  noise  and  con- 
fusion excited  and  delighted  her.  She  rose  to  the  waves  of  sound 
as  a  swimmer  rises  in  the  sea,  her  heart  beat  fast,  and  she  was  so 
eagerly  engaged  in  looking  about  her,  in  staring  at  the  hurrying 
people,  in  locating  the  shrill  screams  of  the  engines,  in  determin- 
ing not  to  jump  when  the  carriages  jolted  together,  that  her  little 
black  bag  opened  unexpectedly  once  more  and  spilled  a  handker- 
chief, a  hand-mirror,  a  paper  packet  of  sweets,  a  small  pair  of 
scissors,  and  a  shabby  brown  purse  upon  the  station-floor.  She 
was  greatly  confused  when  an  old  gentleman  helped  her  to  pick 
them  up.    The  little  mirror  was  broken. 

"  Oh !  it's  bad  luck ! "  she  cried,  staring  distressfully  at  the  old 
man.  He  smiled,  and  would  have  certainly  been  very  agreeable 
to  her  had  not  Aunt  Anne,  who  had  been  finding  their  boxes  and 
securing  a  cab,  arrived  and  taken  Maggie  away. 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  51 

"You  shouldn't  speak  to  strange  gentlemen,  dear,"  said  Aunt 
Anne. 

But  Maggie  did  not  listen.  It  was  characteristic  of  Anne 
Cardinal  that  she  should  secure  the  only  four-wheeler  in  the 
station,  rejecting  the  taxi-cabs  that  waited  in  rows  for  her  pleasure. 
Had  Maggie  only  known,  her  aunt's  choice  was  eloquent  of  their 
future  life  together.  But  Maggie  did  not  know  and  did  not  care. 
Her  excitement  was  intense.  That  old  St.  Dreot  life  had  already 
swung  so  far  behind  her  that  it  was  like  a  fantastic  dream;  as 
they  rumbled  through  the  streets,  the  cries,  the  smells,  the  lights 
seemed  arranged  especially  for  her.  She  could  not  believe  that 
they  had  all  been,  just  like  this,  before  her  arrival.  As  with 
everything,  she  was  busy  imagining  the  World  behind  this  display, 
the  invisible  Circle  inside  the  circle  that  she  saw. 

They  came  into  the  Strand,  and  the  masses  of  moving  people 
seemed  to  her  like  somnambulists  walking  without  reason  or  pur- 
pose. She  felt  as  though  there  would  suddenly  come  a  great  hole 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  into  which  the  cab  would  tumble.  The 
noise  seemed  to  her  country  ears  deafening,  and  when,  suddenly, 
the  lighted  letters  of  some  advertisement  flashed  out  gigantic 
against  the  sky,  she  gave  a  little  scream.  She  puzzled  her  aunt  by 
saying: 

"But  it  isn't  really  like  this,  is  it?" 

To  which  Aunt  Anne  could  only  say: 

"  You're  hungry  and  tired,  dear,  I  expect." 

With  one  last  outrending  scream  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
fling  itself  at  the  window,  open  because  Aunt  Anne  thought  the 
cab  "  had  a  smell."  "  Oosh— O  O  S  H."  "  OOSH."  .  .  .  Maggie 
drew  back  as  though  she  expected  some  one  to  leap  in  upon  them. 
Then,  with  that  marvellous  and  ironical  gift  of  contrast  that  is 
London's  secret,  they  were  suddenly  driven  into  the  sleepiest  quiet; 
they  stumbled  up  a  street  that  was  like  a  cave  for  misty  darkness 
and  muffled  echoes.    The  cab's  wheels  made  a  riotous  clatter. 

A  man  posting  a  letter  in  a  pillar-box  was  the  only  figure  in  the 
street.  The  stars  shone  overhead  with  wonderful  brilliance,  and  a 
little  bell  jangled  softly  close  at  hand.  All  the  houses  were  tall 
and  secret,  with  high  white  steps  and  flat  faces.  A  cat  slipped 
across  the  street;  another  swiftly  followed  it. 

St.  Dreot'e  seemed  near  at  hand  again  and  Ellen  the  cook  not 
so  far  away.    Maggie  felt  a  sudden  forlornness  and  desolation. 

"What  a  very  quiet  street!"  she  whispered,  as  though  she  were 
afraid  lest  the  street  should  hear. 

They  stopped  before  one  of  the  flat-faced  houses;  Aunt  Anne 


52  THE  CAPTIVES 

rang  the  bell,  and  an  old  woman  with  a  face  like  a  lemon  helped 
the  cabman  with  the  boxes.  Maggie  was  standing  in  a  hall  that 
smelt  of  damp  and  geraniums.  It  was  intensely  dark,  and  a  shrill 
scream  from  somewhere  did  not  make  things  more  pleasant. 

"  That's  Edward  the  parrot,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  ?  Take  care  not 
to  approach  him  too  closely,  dear,  because  he  bites." 

Then  they  went  upstairs,  Maggie  groping  her  way  and  stumbling 
at  the  sharp  corners.  The  darkness  grew;  she  knocked  her  knee 
on  the  corner  of  something,  cried  out,  and  a  suddenly  opened  door 
threw  a  pale  green  light  upon  a  big  picture  of  men  in  armour 
attacking  a  fortified  town  beneath  a  thundery  sky.  This  picture 
wavered  and  faltered,  hung  as  it  was  upon  a  thin  cord  strained  to 
breaking-point.  Maggie  reached  the  security  of  the  room  beyond 
the  passage,  her  shoulders  bent  a  little  as  though  she  expected  to 
hear  at  every  instant  the  crashing  collapse  of  the  armoured  men. 
Her  eyes  unused  to  the  light,  she  stumbled  into  the  room,  fell  into 
some  one's  arms,  felt  that  her  poor  hat  was  crooked  and  her  cheeks 
burning,  and  then  was  rebuked,  as  it  seemed,  by  the  piercing  cry 
of  Edward  the  parrot  from  the  very  bowels  of  the  house. 

She  stammered  something  to  the  man  who  had  held  her  and  then 
let  her  go.  She  was  confused,  hot  and  angry.  "  They'll  think  me 
an  idiot  who  can't  enter  a  room  properly."  She  glared  about  her 
and  felt  as  though  she  had  been  taken  prisoner  by  some  strange 
people  who  lived  under  the  sea.  She  was  aware,  when  her  eyes 
were  accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  that  the  entrance  of  herself  and 
her  aunt  had  interrupted  the  conversation  of  three  people.  Near 
the  fireplace  sat  a  little  woman  wearing  black  mittens  and  a  white 
lace  cap;  standing  above  her  with  his  arm  on  the  mantelpiece 
was  a  thin,  battered-looking  gentleman  with  large  spectacles,  high, 
gaunt  features  and  a  very  thin  head  of  hair;  near  the  door  was 
the  man  against  whom  Maggie  had  collided.  She  saw  that  he 
was  young,  thick-set  and  restless.  She  noticed  even  then  his 
eyes,  bright  and  laughing  as  though  he  were  immensely  amused. 
His  mouth  opened  and  closed  again,  his  eyes  were  never  still,  and 
be  made  fierce  dumb  protests  with  his  body,  jerking  it  forward, 
pulling  it  back,  as  a  rider  strives  to  restrain  an  unruly  horse. 
Maggie  was  able  to  notice  these  things,  because  during  the  first 
moments  her  Aunt  Anne  entirely  held  the  stage.  She  advanced 
-fro  the  fireplace  with  her  halting  movement,  embraced  the  little 
lady  by  the  fire  with  a  soft  and  unimpassioned  clasp. 

"Well,  Elizabeth,  here  we  are,  you  see,"  turned  to  the  thin 
gentleman  saying,  "Why  you,  Mr.  Magnus!  I  thought  that  you 
were  still  in  Wiltshire !  "  then  from  the  middle  of  the  room  ad- 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  53 

dressing  the  stout  young  man :  "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Warlock." 

Maggie  fancied  that  the  three  persons  were  nervous  of  her  aunt; 
the  stout  young  man  was  amused  perhaps  at  the  general  situa- 
tion, but  Mr.  Magnus  by  the  fireplace  showed  great  emotion,  the 
colour  mounting  into  his  high  bony  cheeks  and  his  nostrils  twitch- 
ing like  a  horse's.  Maggie  had  been  always  very  observant,  and 
she  was  detached  enough  now  to  notice  that  the  drawing-room  was 
filled  with  ugly  and  cumbrous  things  and  yet  seemed  unfurnished. 
Although  everything  was  old  and  had  been  there  obviously  for 
years,  the  place  yet  reminded  one  of  a  bare  chamber  into  which 
furniture  had  just  been  piled  without  order  or  arrangement. 
Opposite  the  door  was  a  large  and  very  bad  painting  of  the  two 
sisters  as  young  gins,  sitting,  with  arms  encircled,  in  low  dresses, 
on  the  seashore  before  a  grey  and  angry  sea,  and  Uncle  Mathew  as 
a  small,  shiny-faced  boy  in  tight  short  blue  trousers,  carrying  a 
bucket  and  spade,  and  a  smug,  pious  expression.  The  room  was 
lit  with  gas  that  sizzled  and  hissed  in  a  protesting  undertone; 
there  was  a  big  black  cat  near  the  fire,  and  this  watched  Maggie 
with  green  and  fiery  eyes. 

She  stood  there  by  the  door  tired  and  hungry;  she  felt  un- 
acknowledged and  forgotten. 

"  I  know  I  shall  hate  it,"  was  her  thought ;  she  was  conscious 
of  her  arms  and  her  legs;  her  ankle  tickled  in  her  shoe,  and  she 
longed  to  scratch  it.  She  sneezed  suddenly,  and  they  all  jumped 
as  though  the  floor  had  opened  beneath,  them. 

"  And  Maggie  ? "  said  the  little  lady  by  the  fireplace. 

Maggie  moved  forward  with  the  awkward  gestures  and  the  angry 
look  in  her  eyes  that  were  always  hers  when  she  was  ill  at  ea^e. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  "  has  been  very  good." 

"  And  she's  tired,  I'm  sure,"  continued  the  little  lady,  who  must 
of  course  be  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "  The  journey  was  easy,  dear.  And 
you  had  no  change.  They  gave  you  footwarmers,  I  hope.  It's  been 
lovely  weather.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  dear.  I've  had  no  photo- 
graph of  you  since  you  were  a  baby." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  had  a  way,  Maggie  thought,  of  collecting  a 
number  of  little  disconnected  statements  as  though  she  were  work- 
ing out  a  sum  and  hoped — but  was  not  very  certain — that  she 
would  achieve  a  successful  answer.  "Add  two  and  five  and  three 
and  four  ..."  The  statements  that  she  made  were  apparently 
worlds  apart  in  interest  and  importance,  but  she  hoped  with  good 
fortune  to  flash  upon  the  boards  a  fine  result.  She  was  nervous, 
Maggie  saw,  and  her  thin  shoulders  were  a  little  bent  as  though 


54  THE  CAPTIVES 

she  expected  some  one  from  behind  to  Btrike  her  suddenly  in  the 
small  of  the  back. 

"  She's  afraid  of  something,"  thought  Maggie. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  had  obviously  not  the  strong  character  of  her 
sister  Anne. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking,  for  no  reason  at  all,  at  Mr. 
Magnus,  "  I  slept  in  the  train,  so  I'm  not  tired."  She  stopped 
then,  because  there  was  nothing  more  to  say.  She  felt  that  she 
ought  to  kiss  her  aunt;  she  thought  she  saw  in  her  aunt's  small 
rather  watery  eyes  an  appeal  that  she  should  do  so.  The  distance, 
however,  seemed  infinite,  and  Maggie  had  a  strange  feeling  that 
her  bending  down  would  break  some  spell,  that  the  picture  in  the 
passage  would  fall  with  a  ghostly  clatter,  that  Edward  the  parrot 
would  scream  and  shriek,  that  the  gas  would  burst  into  a  bubbling 
horror,  that  the  big  black  cat  would  leap  upon  her  and  tear  her 
with  its  claws. 

"Well,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  thought.  And,  as  though  she  were 
defying  the  universe,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  aunt.  She 
fancied  that  this  act  of  hers  produced  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  Every 
one  seemed  to  settle  down.  They  all  sat,  and  conversation  was 
general. 

Mr.  Magnus  had  a  rather  melancholy,  deprecating  voice,  but 
with  some  touch  of  irony  too,  as  though  he  were  used  to  being 
called  a  fool  by  his  fellow-beings,  but  after  all  knew  better  than 
they  did.  He  did  not  sound  at  all  conceited;  only  amused  with  a 
little  gentle  melancholy  at  his  own  position. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  well,  Miss  Cardinal,"  he  said  with  an 
air  of  rather  old-fashioned  courtesy.  "I  had  been  afraid  that  it 
might  have  exhausted  you.  I  only  came  to  welcome  you.  I  must 
return  at  once.    I  have  an  article  to  finish  before  midnight." 

Aunt  Anne  smiled  gently :  "  No,  I'm  not  tired,  thank  you. 
And  what  has  happened  while  I  have  been  away  ? " 

"I  have  been  away  too,  as  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Magnus,  "but 
I  understand  that  your  sister  has  been  very  busy— quite  a 
number " 

Aunt  Elizabeth  said  in  her  trembling  voice :  "No.  No — Anne — 
I  assure  you.  Nothing  at  all.  As  you  know,  the  Bible  Committee 
wanted  to  discuss  the  new  scheme.  Last  Tuesday.  Mr.  Warlock, 
Mr.  Simms,  young  Holliday,  Miss  Martin,  Mary  Hearst.  And 
Sophie  Dunn.  And  Mr.  Turner.  Nothing  at  all.  It  was  a  wet 
day.    Last  Tuesday  afternoon." 

"  Your  mother  is  quite  well,  I  hope,  Mr.  Warlock  ? "  said  Aunt 
Anne,  turning  to  the  young  man. 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  55 

"  Yes — she's  all  right,"  he  answered.  "  Just  the  same.  Amy 
wants  you  to  go  and  see  her.  I  was  to  give  you  the  message,  if 
you  could  manage  to-morrow  sometime;  or  she'd  come  here  if  it's 
more  convenient.  There's  something  important,  she  says,  but  I 
don't  suppose  it's  important  in  the  least.    You  know  what  she  is." 

He  spoke,  laughing.  His  eyes  wandered  all  round  the  room  and 
suddenly  settled  on  Maggie  with  a  startled  stare,  as  though  she 
were  the  last  person  whom  he  had  expected  to  find  there. 

"Yes.  To-morrow  afternoon,  perhaps — about  three,  if  that 
would  suit  her.    How  is  Amy  ? " 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right.  As  eager  to  run  the  world  as  ever — and 
she  never  will  run  it  so  long  as  she  shows  her  cards  as  obviously 
as  she  does.  I  tell  her  so.  But  it's  no  good.  She  doesn't  listen 
to  me,  you  know." 

Aunt  Anne,  with  the  incomparable  way  that  she  had,  brushed  all 
this  very  gently  aside.    She  simply  said: 

"  I'm  glad  that  she's  well."  Then  she  turned  to  the  other 
gentleman : 

"Your  writing's  quite  satisfactory,  I  hope,  Mr.  Magnus." 

She  spoke  as  though  it  had  been  a  cold  or  a  toothache. 

He  smiled  his  melancholy  ironical  smile.  "I  go  on,  you  know, 
Miss  Cardinal.     After  all,  it's  my  bread  and  butter." 

Maggie,  looking  at  him,  knew  that  this  was  exactly  the  way 
that  he  did  not  regard  it,  and  felt  a  sudden  sympathy  towards  him 
with  his  thin  hair,  his  large  spectacles  and  his  shabby  clothes.  But 
her  look  at  him  was  the  last  thing  of  which  she  was  properly 
conscious.  The  wall  beyond  the  fireplace,  that  had  seemed  before 
to  her  dim  and  dark,  now  suddenly  appeared  to  lurch  forward,  to 
bulge  before  her  eyes;  the  floor  with  its  old,  rather  shabby  carpet 
rose  on  a  slant  as  though  it  was  rocked  by  an  unsteady  sea;  worst 
of  all,  the  large  black  cat  swelled  like  a  balloon,  its  whiskers 
distended  like  wire.  She  knew  that  her  eyes  were  burning,  that 
her  forehead  was  cold,  and  that  she  felt  sick.  She  was  hungry, 
and  at  the  same  time  was  conscious  that  she  could  eat  nothing. 
Her  only  wish  was  to  creep  away  and  hide  herself  from  every  one. 

However,  through  all  her  confusion  she  was  aware  of  her  deter- 
mination not  to  betray  to  them  that  she  was  ill.  "  If  only  the 
cat  wouldn't  grow  so  fast,  I  believe  I  could  manage,"  was  her 
desperate  thought.  There  was  a  roaring  in  her  ears;  she  caught 
suddenly  from  an  infinite  distance  the  voice  of  the  stout  young 
man—"  She's  ill !    She's  fainting !  " 

She  was  aware  that  she  struggled  to  face  him  with  fierce  pro- 
testing eyes.    The  next  thing  she  knew  was  that  she  lay  for  the 


56  THE  CAPTIVES 

6econd  time  that  afternoon  in  his  arms.  She  felt  that  he  laid 
her,  clumsily  but  gently,  upon  the  sofa;  some  one  sprinkled  cold 
water  on  her  forehead.  Deep  down  in  her  soul  she  hated  and 
despised  herself  for  this  weakness  before  strangers.  She  closed 
her  eyes  tightly,  desiring  to  conceal  not  so  much  the  others  as 
herself  from  her  scornful  gaze.  She  heard  some  one  say  something 
about  a  cup  of  tea,  and  she  wanted  it  suddenly  with  a  desperate, 
fiery  desire,  but  she  would  not  speak,  no,  not  if  they  were  to  torture 
her  with  thirst  for  days  and  days — to  that  extent  at  least  she  could 
preserve  her  independence. 

She  heard  her  Aunt  Elizabeth  say  something  like :  "  Poor  thing 
— strain — last  week — father — too  much." 

She  gathered  all  her  energies  together  to  say  "  It  hasn't  been  too 
much.  I'm  all  right,"  but  they  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
before  that  she  succumbed.  She  drank  it  with  eager  greed,  then 
lay  back,  her  eyes  closed,  and  slowly  the  bars  of  hot  iron  with- 
drew from  her  forehead.    She  slept. 

She  woke  to  a  room  wrapped  in  a  green  trembling  twilight. 
She  was  alone  save  for  the  black  cat.  The  fire  crackled,  the  gas 
was  turned  low,  and  the  London  murmur  beyond  the  window  was 
like  the  hum  of  an  organ.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room;  she 
felt,  as  she  lay  there,  an  increasing  irritation  at  her  weakness. 
She  was  afraid  too  for  her  future.  Did  she  faint  like  this  at  the 
earliest  opportunity  people  would  allow  her  no  chance  of  earning 
her  living.  Where  was  that  fine  independent  life  upon  which,  out- 
side Borhedden  Farm,  she  had  resolved?  And  these  people,  her 
aunts,  the  young  man,  the  thin  spectacled  man,  what  would  they 
think  of  her?  They  would  name  it  affectation,  perhaps,  and 
imagine  that  she  had  acted  in  such  a  way  that  she  might  gain 
their  interest  and  sympathy.  Such  a  thought  sent  the  colour 
flaming  to  her  cheeks;  she  sat  up  on  the  sofa.  She  would  go  to 
them  at  once  and  show  them  that  she  was  perfectly  strong  and 
well. 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  came  in,  very  gently  as 
though  she  were  going  to  steal  something.  She  was,  Maggie  saw 
now,  so  little  as  to  be  almost  deformed,  with  a  soft  pale  face,  lined 
and  wrinkled,  and  blue  watery  eyes.  She  wore  a  black  silk  wrapper 
over  her  shoulders,  and  soft  black  slippers.  Alice  in  Wonderland 
was  one  of  the  few  books  that  Maggie  had  read  in  her  childhood; 
Aunt  Elizabeth  reminded  her  strongly  of  the  White  Queen  in 
the  second  part  of  that  masterpiece. 

u  Oh,  you're  not  asleep,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Maggie.    "  I'm  perfectly  all  right.    I  can't 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  57 

think  what  made  me  behave  like  that.  I've  never  done  such  a 
thing  before.     I'm  ashamed !  " 

"  It  was  very  natural,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "  You  should  have 
had  some  tea  at  once.  It  was  my  fault.  It's  late  now.  Nine 
o'clock.  My  sister  suggests  bed.  Supper  in  bed.  Very  nice,  I 
always  think,  after  a  long  journey.  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow,  I 
expect.  We've  had  beautiful  weather  until  this  morning,  when  it 
rained  for  an  hour.  Chicken  and  some  pudding.  There's  a  little 
Australian  wine  that  my  sister  keeps  in  the  house  for  accidents. 
I  liked  it  myself  when  I  had  it  once  for  severe  neuralgia." 

She  suddenly,  with  a  half-nervous,  half-desperate  gesture,  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  Maggie's.  Her  hand  was  soft  like  blanc- 
mange; it  had  apparently  no  bones  in  it. 

Maggie  was  touched  and  grateful.  She  liked  this  little  shy, 
frightened  woman.    She  would  do  anything  to  please  her. 

"  Don't  think,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  that  I've  ever  fainted  like 
that  before.  I  assure  you  that  I've  never  done  anything  so  silly. 
You  mustn't  think  that  I'm  not  strong.  I'm  strong  as  a  horse — 
father  always  said  so.  I've  come  to  help  you  and  Aunt  Anne  in 
any  way  I  can.  You  mustn't  think  that  I'm  going  to  be  in  the 
way.    I  only  want  to  be  useful." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  started  and  looked  at  the  door.  "I  thought  I 
heard  something,"  she  said.    They  both  listened. 

*  Perhaps  it  was  the  parrot,"  said  Maggie. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  smiled  bravely. 

"  There  are  often  noises  in  an  old  house  like  this,"  she  said. 

The  black  cat  came  towards  them,  slowly,  with  immense  digni- 
fied indifference.  He  swung  his  tail  as  though  to  show  them  that 
he  cared  for  no  one.  He  walked  to  the  door  and  waited;  then 
followed  them  out  of  the  room. 

Maggie  found  that  her  bedroom  was  a  room  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  very  white  and  clean,  with  a  smell  of  soot  and  tallow  candle 
that  was  new  and  attractive.  There  was  a  large  text  in  bright 
purple  over  the  bed — "  The  Lord  cometh ;  prepare  ye  the  way  of 
the  Lord."  From  the  window  one  saw  roofs,  towers,  chimneys,  a 
sweeping  arc  of  sky — lights  now  spun  and  sparkled  into  pathways 
and  out  again,  driven  by  the  rumble  behind  them  that  never 
ceased,  although  muffled  by  the  closed  window. 

They  talked  together  for  a  little  while,  standing  near  the 
window,  the  candle  wavering  in  Aunt  Elizabeth's  unsteady 
hand. 

"  We  thought  you'd  like  this  top  room.  It's  quieter  than  the 
rest  of  the  house.     Sometimes  when  the  sweep  hasn't  been  the 


58  THE  CAPTIVES 

soot  tumbles  down  the  chimney.  You  mustn't  mind  that.  Thomas 
will  push  open  the  door  and  walk  in  at  times.    It's  his  way." 

"  Thomas  ? "  said  Maggie  bewildered. 

"Our  cat.  He  has  been  with  us  for  many  years  now.  Those 
who  know  say  that  he  might  have  taken  prizes  once.  I  can't  tell 
I'm  sure.  If  you  pull  that  bell  when  you  want  anything  Martha 
will  come.  She  will  call  you  at  half -past  seven;  prayers  are  in 
the  dining-room  at  a  quarter  past  eight.  Sometimes  the  wind 
blows  through  the  wall-paper,  but  it  is  only  the  wind." 

Maggie  drew  back  the  curtains  that  hid  the  glitter  of  the  lights. 

"Were    those   great   friends    of    yours,    those   gentlemen    this 


evening 


2" 


"  The  one  who  wears  spectacles,  Mr.  Magnus — yes,  he  is  a  very 
old  friend.    He  is  devoted  to  my  sister.    He  writes  stories." 

"What,  in  the  papers?" 

"  No,  in  books.    Two  every  year." 

"And  the  other  one?" 

"  That  is  young  Mr.  Warlock — he  is  the  son  of  our  minister." 

"  Does  he  live  near  here  ? " 

"  He  lives  just  now  with  his  parents.  Of  late  years  he  has  been 
abroad." 

"  He  doesn't  look  like  the  son  of  a  minister,"  6aid  Maggie. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid "  Aunt  Elizabeth  suddenly  stopped.    "  His 

father  has  been  minister  of  our  chapel  for  twenty  years.  He  is 
a  great  and  wonderful  man." 

"Where  is  the  chapel?" 

"Very  near  at  hand.  You  will  see  it  to-morrow.  To-morrow 
is  Sunday." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Maggie  knew  that  now  was  the  time 
when  she  should  say  something  friendly  and  affectionate.  She 
could  say  nothing.  She  stared  at  her  aunt,  then  at  a  long  mirror 
that  faced  her  bed,  then  at  the  lighted  sky.  She  felt  warmly  grate- 
ful, eager  to  show  all  the  world  that  she  would  do  her  best,  that 
she  was  ready  to  give  herself  to  this  new  life  with  all  her  soul  and 
strength — she  could  say  nothing. 

They  waited. 

At  last  her  aunt  said: 

"Good-night,  dear  Maggie." 

"  Good-night,  Aunt  Elizabeth." 

She  stole  away,  leaving  the  candle  upon  the  chest  of  drawers; 
the  cat  followed  her,  swinging  his  tail. 

Left  alone,  Maggie  felt  the  whole  sweep  of  her  excitement.  She 
was  exhausted,  her  body  felt  as  though   it  had   been  trampled 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  59 

upon,  she  was  so  tired  that  she  could  scarcely  drag  her  clothes 
from  her,  but  the  exaltation  of  her  spirit  was  beyond  and  above  all 
this.  Half  undressed  she  stood  before  the  long  mirror.  She  had 
never  before  possessed  a  long  looking-glass,  and  now  she  seemed  to 
see  herself  as  she  really  was  for  the  first  time.  Was  she  very 
ugly  and  unattractive?  Yes,  she  must  be  with  that  stumpy  body, 
those  thick  legs  and  arms,  that  short  nose  and  large  mouth.  And 
she  did  not  know  what  to  do  to  herself  to  make  herself  attractive. 
Other  girls  knew  but  she  had  never  had  any  one  who  could  tell 
her.  Perhaps  she  would  make  girl  friends  now  who  would  show 
her. 

But,  after  all,  she  did  not  care.  She  was  herself.  People  who 
did  not  like  her  could  leave  hex* — yes  they  could,  and  she  would 
not  stir  a  finger  to  fetch  them  back. 

Then,  deep  down  in  her  soul,  she  knew  that  she  wanted  success, 
a  magnificent  life,  a  great  future.  Nay  more,  she  expected  it. 
She  had  force  and  strength,  and  she  would  compel  life  to  give 
her  what  she  wanted.  She  laughed  at  herself  in  the  glass.  She 
was  happy,  almost  triumphant,  and  for  no  reason  at  all. 

She  went  to  her  windows  and  opened  them;  there  came  up  to 
her  the  tramping  progress  of  the  motor-omnibuses.  They  ad- 
vanced, like  elephants  charging  down  a  jungle,  nearer,  nearer, 
nearer.  Before  the  tramp  of  one  had  passed  another  was  ad- 
vancing, and  then  upon  that  another — ceaselessly,  advancing  and 
retreating. 

In  her  nightdress  she  leaned  out  of  the  window,  poised,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  above  a  swaying  carpet  of  lights. 

Life  seemed  to  hold  every  promise  in  store  for  her. 

She  crossed  to  her  bed,  drew  the  clothes  about  her  and,  for- 
getting her  supper,  forgetting  all  that  had  happened  to  her,  her 
journey,  her  fainting,  the  young  man,  Edward  the  parrot,  she 
fell  into  a  slumber  as  deep,  as  secure,  as  death  itself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CHAPEL 

MAGGIE  woke  next  morning  to  a  strange  silence.  Many 
were  the  silent  mornings  that  had  greeted  her  at  St.  Dreots, 
but  this  was  silence  with  a  difference;  it  was  the  silence,  she  was 
instantly  aware,  of  some  one  whose  very  soul  was  noise  and 
tumult.  She  listened,  and  the  sudden  chirping  of  some  sparrows 
beyond  her  window  only  accentuated  the  sense  of  expectation. 
She  had  never,  in  all  her  days,  been  so  conscious  of  Sunday. 

She  was  almost  afraid  to  move  lest  she  should  break  the  spell. 

She  lay  in  bed  and  thought  of  the  preceding  evening.  Her 
fainting  fit  seemed  to  her  now  more  than  ever  unfortunate;  it 
had  placed  her  at  a  disadvantage  with  them  all.  She  could  imagine 
the  stout  young  man  returning  to  his  home  and  saying:  "Their 
niece  has  arrived.  Seems  a  weak  little  thing.  Fainted  right  off 
there  in  the  drawing-room."  Or  her  aunts  saying  anxiously  to  one 
another :  "  Well,  I  didn't  know  she  was  as  delicate  as  that.  I 
hope  she  won't  be  always  ill,"  .  .  .  and  she  wasn't  delicate — no 
one  stronger.     She  had  never  fainted  before.     The  silliness  of  it! 

The  next  thing  that  disturbed  her  was  the  comfort  and  arrange- 
ment of  everything.  Certainly  the  drawing-room  had  not  been 
very  orderly,  full  of  old  things  badly  placed,  but  this  bedroom 
was  clean  and  tidy,  and  the  supper  last  night,  so  neat  on  its  tray 
with  everything  that  she  could  want!  She  could  feel  the  order 
and  discipline  of  the  whole  house.  And  she  had  never,  in  all  her 
life,  been  either  orderly  or  disciplined.  She  had  never  been  brought 
up  to  be  so.  How  could  you  be  orderly  when  there  were  holes  in 
the  bedroom  ceiling  and  the  kitchen  floor,  holes  that  your  father 
would  never  trouble  to  have  mended? 

Her  aunts  would  wish  her  to  help  in  the  house  and  she  would 
forget  things.  There  passed  before  her,  in  that  Sunday  quiet,  a 
terrible  procession  of  the  things  that  she  would  forget.  She  knew 
that  she  would  not  be  patient  under  correction,  especially  under 
the  correction  of  her  Aunt  Anne.  Already  she  felt  in  her  a 
rebellion  at  her  aunt's  aloofness  and  passivity.  After  all,  why 
should  she  treat  every  one  as  though  she  were  God?  Maggie  felt 
that  there  was  in  her  aunt's  attitude  something  sentimental  and 

60 


THE  CHAPEL  61 

affected.  She  hated  sentiment  and  affectation  in  any  one.  She 
was  afraid,  too,  that  Anne  bullied  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Maggie  was 
sorry  for  Aunt  Elizabeth  but,  with  all  the  arrogance  of  the  young, 
a  little  despised  her.  Why  did  she  tremble  and  start  like  that? 
She  should  stand  up  for  herself  and  not  mind  what  her  sister  said 
to  her.  Finally,  there  was  something  about  the  house  for  which 
Maggie  could  not  quite  account,  some  uneasiness  or  expectation, 
as  though  one  knew  that  there  was  some  one  behind  the  door  and 
was  therefore  afraid  to  open  it.  It  may  have  been  simply  London 
that  was  behind  it.  Maggie  was  ready  to  attribute  anything  to 
the  influence  of  that  tremendous  power,  but  her  own  final  im- 
pression was  that  the  people  in  this  house  had  for  too  long  a  time 
been  brooding  over  something.  *  It  would  do  my  aunts  a  lot  of 
good  to  move  somewhere  else,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  As  Aunt  Anne 
loves  the  country  so  much  I  can't  think  why  she  doesn't  live 
there."  There  were  many  things  that  she  was  to  learn  before  the 
end  of  the  day. 

Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  little  whirr  and  clatter, 
which,  thin  and  distant  though  it  was,  penetrated  into  her  room. 
The  whirr  was  followed  by  the  voice,  clear,  self-confident  and 
cheerful,  of  a  cuckoo.  Maggie  was  in  an  instant  out  of  bed,  into 
the  passage  and  standing,  in  her  nightdress,  before  a  high,  old 
cuckoo-clock  that  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  The  wooden  bird, 
looking  down  at  her  in  friendly  fashion,  "  cuckooed  "  eight  times, 
flapped  his  wings  at  her  and  disappeared.  It  is  a  sufficient  witness 
to  Maggie's  youth  and  inexperience  that  she  was  enraptured  by 
this  event.  It  was  not  only  that  she  had  never  seen  a  cuckoo-clock 
before;  she  had,  for  that  matter,  never  heard  of  the  existence  of 
such  a  thing.  It  gave  her  greater  happiness  than  any  bare  me- 
chanical discovery  could  have  done.  The  bird  seemed  to  have  come 
to  her,  in  the  friendliest  way,  to  remove  some  of  the  chilly  pas- 
sivity of  the  house.  Her  greatest  fear  since  her  arrival  had  been 
that  this  was  a  house  "  in  which  nothing  was  ever  going  to  happen," 
and  that  "  6he  would  never  get  out  of  it."  "  It  will  be  just  as  it 
has  been  all  my  life,  seeing  nothing,  doing  nothing — only  instead 
of  father  it  will  be  the  aunts."  The  bird  seemed  to  promise  her 
adventure  and  excitement.  To  most  people  it  would  have  been 
only  a  further  sign  of  an  old-fashioned  household  far  behind  the 
times.  To  Maggie  it  was  thrilling  and  encouraging.  He  would 
remind  her  every  hour  of  the  day  of  the  possibility  of  fun  in  a 
world  that  was  full  of  surprises.  She  heard  suddenly  a  step  behind 
her  and  a  dry  voice  saying: 

"  Your  hot  water,  Miss  Maggie." 


62  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  turned  round,  blushing  at  being  caught  staring  up  at  a 
cuckoo-clock  like  a  baby  in  her  nightdress,  to  face  the  wrinkled 
old  woman  who  the  night  before  had  brought  her,  with  a  grudging 
countenance,  her  supper.  Maggie  had  thought  then  that  this  old 
Martha  did  not  like  her  and  resented  the  extra  work  that  her 
stay  in  the  house  involved;  she  was  now  more  than  ever  sure  of 
that  dislike. 

"  I  thought  I  was  to  be  called  at  half -past  seven." 

"  Eight  on  Sundays,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  I  hope  you're  better 
this  morning,  miss." 

Maggie  felt  this  to  be  deeply  ironical  and  flushed. 

"I'm  quite  well,  thank  you,"  she  said  stiffly.  "What  time  is 
breakfast  on  Sundays  ? " 

"  The  prayer-bell  rings  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  miss." 

They  exchanged  no  more  conversation. 

At  a  quarter  to  nine  a  shrill,  jangling  bell  rang  out  and  Maggie 
hurried  down  the  dark  staircase.  She  did  not  know  where  the 
dining-room  was,  but  by  good  chance  she  caught  sight  of  Aunt 
Elizabeth's  little  body  moving  hurriedly  down  the  passage  and 
hastened  after  her.  She  arrived  only  just  in  time.  There,  stand- 
ing in  a  row  before  four  chairs,  their  faces  red  and  shining,  their 
hands  folded  in  front  of  them,  were  the  domestics;  there,  with  a 
little  high  desk  in  front  of  her,  on  the  other  side  of  the  long  dining- 
room  table  was  Aunt  Anne;  here,  near  the  door,  were  two  chairs 
obviously  intended  for  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  Maggie. 

Maggie  in  her  haste  pushed  the  door,  and  it  banged  loudly  be- 
hind her;  in  the  silent  room  the  noise  echoed  through  the  house. 
It  was  followed  by  a  piercing  scream  from  Edward,  whom,  Maggie 
concluded,  it  had  awakened.  All  this  confused  her  very  much 
and  gave  her  anything  but  a  religious  state  of  mind. 

What  followed  resembled  very  much  the  ceremonies  with  which 
her  father  had  been  accustomed  to  begin  the  day,  except  that  her 
father,  with  one  eye  on  the  bacon,  had  gabbled  at  frantic  pace 
through  the  prayers  and  Aunt  Anne  read  them  very  slowly  and 
with  great  beauty.  She  read  from  the  Gospel  of  St.  John :  "  These 
things  I  command  you,  that  ye  love  one  another  .  .  .";  but  the 
clear,  sweet  tones  of  her  voice  gave  no  conviction  of  a  love  for 
mankind. 

Maggie  looking  from  that  pale  remote  face  to  the  roughened 
cheeks  and  plump  body  of  the  kitchen-maid  felt  that  here  there 
could  be  no  possible  bond.  When  they  knelt  down  she  was  con- 
scious, as  she  had  been  since  she  was  a  tiny  child,  of  two  things — 
the  upturned  heels  of  the  servants'  boots  and  the  discomfort  to  her 


/ 


THE  CHAPEL  63 

own  knees.  These  two  facts  had  always  hindered  her  religious 
devotions,  and  they  hindered  them  now.  There  had  always  been 
to  her  something  irresistibly  comic  in  those  upturned  heels,  the 
dull  flat  surfaces  of  these  cheap  shoes.  In  the  kitchen-maid's  there 
were  the  signs  of  wear ;  Martha's  were  new  and  shining ;  the  house- 
maid's were  smart  and  probably  creaked  abominably.  The  bodies 
above  them  sniffed  and  rustled  and  sighed.  The  vacant,  stupid 
faces  of  the  shoes  were  Aunt  Anne's  only  audience.  Maggie  won- 
dered what  the  owners  of  those  shoes  felt  about  the  house.  Had 
they  a  sense  of  irritation  too  or  did  they  perhaps  think  about 
nothing  at  all  save  their  food,  their  pay  and  their  young  man  or 
their  night  out  ?  The  pain  to  her  knees  pierced  her  thoughts ;  the 
prayers  were  very  long1 — Aunt  Anne's  beautiful  voice  was  in- 
terminable. 

Breakfast  was  quiet  and  silent.  Edward,  who  received  ap- 
parently a  larger  meal  on  Sundays  than  at  ordinary  times,  chat- 
tered happily  to  himself,  and  Maggie  heard  him  say  complacently, 
"  Poor  Parrot — Poor  Parrot.    How  do  you  do  ?    How  do  you  do  ? " 

"  Service  is  at  eleven  o'clock,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "  We  leave 
the  house  at  ten  minutes  to  eleven." 

Maggie,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  the  hour  in  front  of  her, 
went  up  to  her  bedroom,  found  the  servant  making  the  bed,  came 
down  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  in  a  dark  corner  under  a 
large  bead  mat,  that,  nailed  to  the  wall,  gave  little  taps  and 
rustlings  as  though  it  were  trying  to  escape. 

She  felt  that  she  should  be  doing  something,  but  what?  She 
sat  there,  straining  her  ear  for  sounds.  "  One  always  seems  to  be 
expecting  some  one  in  this  house,"  she  thought.  The  weather  that 
had  been  bright  had  now  changed  and  little  gusts  of  rain  beat 
upon  the  windows.  She  thought  with  a  sudden  strange  warmth 
of  Uncle  Mathew.  What  was  he  doing?  Where  was  he?  How 
pleasant  it  would  be  were  he  suddenly  to  walk  into  that  chilly, 
dark  room.  She  would  not  show  him  that  she  was  lonely,  but  she 
would  give  him  such  a  welcome  as  he  had  never  had  from  her 
before.  Had  he  money  enough?  Was  he  feeling  perhaps  as 
desolate  amongst  strangers  as  she?  The  rain  tickled  the  window- 
panes.  Maggie,  with  a  desolation  at  her  heart  that  she  was  too 
proud  to  own,  sat  there  and  waited. 

She  looked  back  afterwards  upon  that  moment  as  the  last  shiver- 
ing pause  before  she  made  that  amazing  plunge  that  was  to  give 
her  new  life. 

The  sound  of  a  little  forlorn  bell  suddenly  penetrated  the  rain. 
It  was  just  such  a  bell  as  rang  every  Sunday  from  chapels  across 


64  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  Glebeshire  moors,  and  Maggie  knew,  when  Aunt  Elizabeth 
opened  the  door  and  looked  in  upon  her,  that  the  summons  was 
for  her. 

"  Oh !  my  dear  (a  favourite  exclamation  of  Aunt  Elizabeth's) 
and  you're  not  ready.  The  bell's  begun.  The  rain's  coming  down 
very  hard,  I'm  afraid.  It's  only  a  step  from  our  door.  Your  things, 
dear,  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  girl  ran  upstairs  and,  stayed  by  some  sudden  impulse,  stood 
for  a  moment  before  the  long  mirror.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
imploring  that  familiar  casual  figure  that  she  saw  there  not  to 
leave  her,  the  only  friend  she  had  in  a  world  that  was  suddenly 
terrifying  and  alarming.  Her  old  black  dress  that  had  seemed 
almost  smart  for  the  St.  Dreot  funeral  now  appeared  most  des- 
perately shabby;  she  knew  that  her  black  hat  was  anything  but 
attractive. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  them  all ! "  her  heart  said  defiantly. 
"  What  do  they  matter  to  me ! " 

She  marched  out  of  the  house  behind  the  aunts  with  her  head 
in  the  air,  very  conscious  of  a  hole  in  one  of  her  thin  black  gloves. 

The  street,  deserted,  danced  in  the  rain;  the  little  bell  clanged 
with  the  stupid  monotony  of  its  one  obstinate  idea;  the  town  wore 
its  customary  Sunday  air  of  a  stage  when  the  performance  is 
concluded,  the  audience  vanished  and  the  lights  turned  down.  The 
aunts  had  a  solemn  air  as  though  they  were  carrying  Maggie  as  a 
sacrifice.    All  these  things  were  depressing. 

They  turned  out  of  their  own  street  into  a  thin,  grey  one  in 
which  the  puddles  sprang  and  danced  against  isolated  milk-cans 
and  a  desolate  pillar-box.  The  little  bell  was  now  loud  and 
strident,  and  when  they  passed  into  a  passage  which  led  into  a 
square,  rather  grimy  yard,  Maggie  saw  that  they  had  arrived. 
Before  her  was  a  hideous  building,  the  colour  of  beef  badly  cooked, 
with  grey  stone  streaks  in  it  here  and  there  and  thin,  narrow 
windows  of  grey  glass  with  stiff,  iron  divisions  between  the  glass. 
The  porch  to  the  door  was  of  the  ugliest  grey  stone  with  "  The 
Lord  Cometh "  in  big  black  letters  across  the  top  of  it.  Just 
inside  the  door  was  a  muddy  red  mat,  and  near  the  mat  stood  a 
gentleman  in  a  faded  frock-coat  and  brown  boots,  an  official  ap- 
parently. There  arrived  at  the  same  time  as  Maggie  and  her  aunts 
a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  all  hidden  beneath  umbrellas. 
As  they  stood  in  the  doorway  a  sudden  scurry  of  wind  and  rain 
drove  them  all  forward  so  that  there  was  some  crush  and  con- 
fusion in  the  little  passage  beyond  the  door.  Waterproofs  steamed ; 
umbrellas  were  ranged  in  dripping  disorder  against  the  wall.    The 


THE  CHAPEL  65 

official,  who  talked  in  a  hushed  whisper  that  was  drowned  by  the 
creaking  of  his  boots,  welcomed  them  all  with  the  intimacy  of  an 
old  acquaintance.  "  Oh,  Miss  Hearst — terrible  weather — no,  she's 
not  here  yet."  "  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Smith — very  glad  you're 
better.  Yes,  I  spoke  to  them  about  the  prayer-books.  They  prom- 
ised to  return  them  this  morning  ..."  and  so  on.  He  turned, 
pushed  back  a  door  and  led  the  way  into  the  chapel.  The  interior 
was  as  ugly  as  the  outside.  The  walls  were  of  the  coldest  grey 
stone,  broken  here  and  there  by  the  lighter  grey  of  a  window. 
Across  the  roof  were  rafters  built  of  that  bright  shining  wood 
that  belongs  intimately  to  colonial  life,  sheep-shearing,  apples  of 
an  immense  size  and  brushwood.  Two  lamps  of  black  iron  hung 
from  these  rafters.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  chapel  was  a  rail 
of  this  same  bright  wood,  and  behind  the  rail  a  desk  and  a  chair. 
In  front  of  the  rail  was  a  harmonium  before  which  was  already 
seated  a  stout  and  expectant  lady,  evidently  eager  to  begin  her 
duties  of  the  day.  The  chapel  was  not  very  large  and  was  already 
nearly  filled.  The  congregation  was  sitting  in  absolute  silence, 
so  that  the  passing  of  Maggie  and  her  aunts  up  the  aisle  attracted 
great  attention.  All  eyes  were  turned  in  their  direction  and  Maggie 
felt  that  she  herself  was  an  object  of  very  especial  interest. 

Aunt  Anne  walked  first  and  took  what  was  obviously  her  own 
regular  seat  near  the  front.  Maggie  sat  between  her  two  aunts. 
She  could  not  feel  for  the  moment  anything  but  a  startled  sur- 
prise at  the  ugliness  of  the  building.  She  had  entered  at  different 
times  the  Glebeshire  chapels,  but  their  primitive  position  and  need 
had  given  them  the  spirit  of  honest  sincerity.  Here  she  had  ex- 
pected she  did  not  know  what.  Always  from  those  very  early 
days  when  she  had  first  heard  about  her  aunts  she  had  had  visions 
of  a  strange  illuminated  place  into  which  God,  "riding  on  a 
chariot  clothed  in  flames,"  would  one  day  come.  Even  after  she 
had  grown  up  she  had  still  fancied  that  the  centre  of  her  aunts' 
strange,  fantastic  religion  must  be  a  strange,  fantastic  place. 
And  yet  now,  as  she  looked  around  her,  she  was  not,  to  her  own 
surprise,  disappointed.  She  was  even  satisfied;  the  "wonder" 
was  not  in  the  building.  Well,  then,  it  must  be  in  something 
"  inside,"  something  that  she  had  yet  to  discover.  The  chapel  had 
the  thrilling  quality  of  a  little  plain  deal  box  that  carries  a  jewel. 

She  examined  then  the  people  around  her.  Women  were  in  a 
great  majority,  a  man  scattered  forlornly  amongst  them  once  and 
again.  She  discovered  at  once  the  alert  eyes  of  young  Mr.  War- 
lock. He  was  seated  in  the  side  aisle  with  a  thin,  severe-looking 
woman  beside  him.     He  stared  straight  in  front  of  him,  wrig- 


66  THE  CAPTIVES 

gling  sometimes  his  broad  back  as  though  he  were  a  dog  tied  by  a 
chain.  Some  one  else  very  quickly  claimed  Maggie's  attention; 
this  was  a  girl  who,  in  the  seat  behind  Mr.  Warlock,  was  as  notice- 
able in  that  congregation  as  a  bird-of-paradise  amongst  a  colony 
of  crows.  She  was  wearing  a  dress  of  light  blue  silk  and  a 
large  hat  of  blue  with  a  grey  bird  in  the  front  of  it. 

Her  hair,  beneath  the  hat,  was  bright  gold,  her  cheeks  were  the 
brightest  pink  and  her  eyes  sparkled  in  a  most  lovely  and  fas- 
cinating manner.  She  was  immensely  interesting  to  Maggie,  who 
had  never,  in  her  life,  dreamed  of  anything  so  dazzling.  She  was 
very  restless  and  animated  and  self-conscious.  There  sat  at  her 
side  a  stout  and  solemn  woman,  who  was  evidently  from  a  strange, 
almost  ironical  likeness  her  mother.  The  young  lady  seemed  to 
regard  both  the  place  and  the  occasion  as  the  greatest  joke  in  the 
world.  She  flung  her  eyes  from  one  to  another  as  though  inviting 
some  one  to  share  her  merriment. 

Amongst  that  black-garbed  assembly  the  blue  dress  shone  out 
as  though  it  would  attract  everything  to  itself.  "  She's  very 
pretty,"  thought  Maggie,  who  was  more  conscious  of  her  shabby 
clothes  than  ever.  But  her  chief  feeling  was  of  surprise  that  so 
brilliant  a  bird  had  been  able  to  penetrate  into  the  chapel  at  all. 
"  She  must  be  a  stranger  just  come  out  of  curiosity."  Then  the 
girl's  eyes  suddenly  met  Maggie's  and  held  them ;  the  brilliant  crea- 
ture smiled  and  Maggie  smiled  in  return.  She  looked  afterwards  at 
Aunt  Anne,  but  Aunt  Anne,  buried  in  her  book  of  devotions,  had 
seen  nothing. 

Suddenly,  after  a  strange  wheeze  and  muffled  scream,  the  har- 
monium began.  Every  one  looked  up  expectantly;  Mr.  Warlock, 
alone,  appeared  from  a  door  at  the  right  of  the  screen  and  took 
his  place  behind  the  desk. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  facing  them  before  he  took  his  place. 
He  was  a  man  of  great  size,  old  now  but  holding  himself  abso- 
lutely erect.  He  was  dressed  in  a  plain  black  gown  with  a  low, 
white  collar  and  a  white  tie.  This  long  gown  added  to  his  height, 
but  the  width  of  the  shoulders  and  neck,  and  the  carriage  of  his 
head  showed  that  he  was  a  man  built  on  a  noble  scale.  His  hair 
was  snow-white  and  he  wore  a  beard,  that  was  in  startling  con- 
trast against  his  black  gown.  His  cheeks  were  of  high  colour, 
his  eyes  blue;  he  was  older  than  Maggie  had  expected  and  must, 
she  thought,  be  over  seventy.  His  whole  bearing  and  behaviour 
was  of  a  man  who  had  enjoyed  great  physical  health.  His  ex- 
pression was  mild  and  simple,  dignified  but  not  proud,  utterly 
unconscious  of  self,  earnest  and  determined,  lacking  in  humour 


THE  CHAPEL  67 

perhaps.  There  was  nothing  in  the  least  theatrical  about  him 
and  yet  he  conveyed  an  impression  that  was  startling  and  dramatic. 
His  was  a  figure  that  would  have  been  noticed  anywhere,  if  only  for 
its  physical  health  and  shining  cleanliness.  Maggie  felt  that  to 
many  people  there  his  entrance  was  a  sensation,  sought  for  and 
expected  by  them.  So  startling  was  the  impression  that  he  made 
upon  herself  that  she  wondered  that  the  chapel  was  not  crowded 
by  an  excited  throng.  She  liked  him  at  once,  felt  that  she  would 
be  at  ease  with  him  as  she  had  never  been  with  anybody  in  her 
life.  And  yet  behind  this  there  was  perhaps  some  subtle  sense  of 
disappointment.  He  was  not  mysterious,  he  did  not  seem  very 
clever;  he  was  only  an  old  man,  magnificently  preserved.  There 
was  no  fear  nor  wonder  in  her  attitude  to  him.  He  could  not 
convince  her,  she  thought,  of  things  that  she  herself  had  not 
seen. 

He  knelt  and  prayed  for  a  moment  before  his  desk,  then  he 
rose  and,  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  wood  before  him,  said: 

"  Let  us  offer  thanks  to  Almighty  God  that  He  has  kept  us  in 
safety  and  in  health  during  the  past  week."  They  all  knelt  down. 
He  prayed  then,  in  a  voice  that  was  soft  and  clear  and  that  hid 
behind  the  words  a  little  roughness  of  accent  that  was  not  un- 
pleasant. His  prayer  was  extempore,  and  he  addressed  God  inti- 
mately and  almost  conversationally.  "  Thou  knowest  how  we  are 
weak  and  foolish,  our  faults  are  all  known  to  Thee  and  our  blun- 
ders are  not  hid,  therefore  we  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  not  been 
impatient  with  us,  but,  seeing  that  we  are  but  little  children  in 
Thy  hands,  hast  deemed  the  thunderbolt  too  heavy  for  our  heads 
and  the  lightning  too  blinding  for  our  eyes.  With  humble  hearts 
we  thank  Thee,  and  pray  that  Thou  wilt  keep  us  mindful  of  Thy 
coming,  that  we  may  be  found  watching,  with  our  loins  girt  and 
our  lamps  lit,  waiting  in  prayer  for  Thy  dreadful  day.  ..." 

During  this  prayer  Maggie  was  conscious  of  a  strange  excite- 
ment. She  knelt  with  her  eyes  tightly  closed,  but  through  the 
darkness  she  felt  as  though  he  were  addressing  her  alone.  She 
seemed  to  approach  him,  to  feel  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  to 
hear  his  voice  in  her  ears.  When  she  rose  at  the  ending  of  the 
prayer  it  was  as  though  she  had  definitely  passed  through  some 
door  into  a  new  room.  Then,  rising,  she  was  conscious  that  the 
laughing  eyes  of  the  young  lady  in  blue  were  again  trying  to  hold 
her  own.  She  refused  to  look — she  coloured,  hanging  her  head  so 
that  her  eyes  should  not  be  caught. 

For  some  time  she  was  unaware  of  the  progress  of  the  service. 
Then  the  clear  emphasis  of  his  voice  caught  again  her  attention. 


68  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Our  lesson  for  to-day,"  he  said,  "is  from  the  Fortieth  Chapter 
of  Isaiah."    He  proceeded  to  read: 

Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye  my  people,  saith  your  God. 

Speak  ye  comfortably  to  Jerusalem,  and  cry  unto  her,  that  her 
warfare  is  accomplished,  that  her  iniquity  is  pardoned:  for  she  hath 
received  of  the  Lord's  hand  double  for  all  her  sins. 

The  voice  of  him  that  crieth  in  the  wilderness,  Prepare  ye  the 
way  of  the  Lord,  make  straight  in  the  desert  a  highway  for  our 
God. 

Every  valley  shall  be  exalted,  and  every  mountain  and  hill  shall 
be  made  low:  and  the  crooked  6hall  be  made  straight,  and  the 
rough  places  plain: 

And  the  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  be  revealed,  and  all  flesh  shall 
see  it  together:  for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it. 

The  voice  said,  Cry.  And  he  said,  What  shall  I  cry  ?  All  flesh 
is  grass,  and  all  the  goodliness  thereof  is  as  the  flower  of  the 
field:  .   .    . 

The  grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth;  but  the  word  of  our  God 
shall  stand  for  ever. 

O  Zion,  that  bringest  good  tidings,  get  thee  up  into  the  high 
mountain;  O  Jerusalem,  that  bringest  good  tidings,  lift  up  thy 
voice  with  strength;  lift  it  up,  be  not  afraid;  say  unto  the  cities 
of  Judah,  Behold  your  God! 

Behold,  the  Lord  God  will  come  with  strong  hand,  and  his  arm 
shall  rule  for  him;  behold,  his  reward  is  with  him,  and  his  work 
before  him. 

He  shall  feed  his  flock  like  a  shepherd;  he  shall  gather  the  lambs 
with  his  arm,  and  carry  them  in  his  bosom,  and  shall  gently  lead 
those  that  are  with  young. 

How  many  times  had  Maggie  heard  the  reading  of  those  words. 
They  brought  instantly  back  to  her  her  father's  voice,  the  strange 
snuffling  hurry  with  which  he  hastened  to  the  end,  his  voice  hesi- 
tating a  little  as  his  wandering  eye  caught  the  misbehaviour  of 
some  small  boy  in  the  choir. 

Now  the  words  were  charged  with  a  conviction  that  was  neither 
forced  nor  adopted  for  dramatic  effect.  It  was  as  though  a  herald 
read  some  proclamation  for  his  master  who  was  approaching  the 
gates  of  the  city.  The  hymns  and  prayers  that  followed  seemed 
to  have  no  importance.  The  hymns  happened  on  that  day  to  be 
familiar  ones  that  Maggie  had  always  known :  "  As  pants  the  hart 
for  cooling  streams,"   "Just  as  I  am,   without  one  plea"   and 


THE  CHAPEL  69 

*  Jerusalem  the  golden."  These  were  sung,  of  course,  slowly, 
badly  and  sentimentally,  the  harmonium  screaming  in  amazing  dis- 
cords, and  the  deep  and  untuneful  voices  of  some  members  of 
the  congregation  drowning  the  ladies  and  placing  a  general  dis- 
cord upon  everything.  Especially  distressing  was  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth, who  evidently  loved  to  sing  hymns  but  had  little  idea  of 
melody  or  rhythm,  and  was  influenced  entirely  by  a  copious  senti- 
ment which  overflowed  into  her  eyes  and  trembled  at  the  tips  of 
her  fingers. 

All  this  was  as  naive  and  awkward  as  is  always  the  singing  of 
English  hymns  in  English  churches  by  English  citizens.  The 
chapel,  which  had  seemed  before  to  be  rising  to  some  strange 
atmosphere  of  expectation,  slipped  back  now  to  its  native  ugliness 
and  sterility.  The  personality  was  in  the  man  and  in  the  man 
alone. 

Maggie  looked  about  her,  at  the  faces  of  the  women  who  sur- 
rounded her.  They  were  grey,  strained,  ugly  in  the  poor  light  of 
the  building.  The  majority  of  them  seemed  to  be  either  servant- 
girls  or  women  who  had  passed  the  adventurous  period  of  life  and 
had  passed  it  without  adventure.  When  the  time  for  the  sermon 
arrived  Mr.  Warlock  prayed,  his  head  bowed,  during  a  moment's 
silence,  then  leaning  forward  on  his  desk  repeated  some  of  the 
words  of  his  earlier  reading: 

Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord,  make  straight  in  the  desert  a 
highway  for  our  God.  Every  valley  shall  be  exalted,  and  every 
mountain  and  hill  shall  be  made  low:  and  the  crooked  shall  be 
made  straight,  and  the  rough  places  plain:  .  .  .  say  unto  the 
cities  of  Judah,  Behold  your  God!  .   .   . 

What  followed  was  practical,  eloquent,  the  preaching  of  a  man 
who  had  through  the  course  of  a  long  life  addressed  men  of  all 
kinds  and  in  all  places.  But  behind  the  facility  and  easy  flow  of 
his  words  Maggie  fancied  that  she  detected  some  urgent  insistence 
that  came  from  the  man's  very  heart.  She  was  moved  by  that  as 
though  he  were  saying  to  her  personally,  "Don't  heed  these  out- 
ward words  of  mine.  But  listen  to  me  myself.  There  is  some- 
thing I  must  tell  you.  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  You  must  be- 
lieve me.  I  will  compel  your  belief.  Follow  me  and  I  will  show 
what  will  transform  your  life."  He  concluded  his  sermon  with 
these  words : 

"  And  what  of  our  responsibility  ?  We  may  compare  ourselves> 
I  think,  to  men  who,  banded  together  on  some  secret  service,  wait 


/ 


70  THE  CAPTIVES 

for  the  moment  when  they  are  to  declare  themselves  and,  by  that 
action,  transform  the  world.  Until  that  moment  comes  they  must 
lead  their  ordinary  daily  lives,  seem  as  careless  of  the  future  as 
their  fellows,  laugh  and  eat  and  work  and  play  as  though  nothing 
beyond  the  business  of  the  day  were  their  concern.  But  in  their 
hearts  is  the  responsibility  of  their  secret  knowledge.  They  can- 
not be  as  other  men  knowing  what  they  do,  they  cannot  be  to  one 
another  as  they  are  to  other  men  with  the  bond  of  their  common 
duty  shared  between  them.  Much  has  been  given  them,  much  will 
be  demanded  of  them;  and  when  the  day  comes  it  will  not  be  the 
events  of  that  day  that  will  test  them  but  the  private  history, 
known  only  to  themselves  and  their  Master,  of  the  hours  that  have 
preceded  that  day. 

"I  tell  you  what  I  have  often  told  you  before  from  this  same 
place,  that  beside  the  history  of  the  spirit  the  history  of  the  body 
is  nothing — and  that  history  of  the  spirit  is  no  easy,  tranquil 
progress  from  birth  to  death,  but  must  rather  be,  if  we  are  to  have 
any  history  at  all,  a  struggle,  a  wrestling,  a  contest,  bloody,  un- 
ceasing, uncertain  in  its  issue  from  the  first  hour  until  the  last. 
This  is  no  mere  warning  spoken  from  the  lips  only  by  one  who, 
from  sheer  weekly  necessity,  may  seem  to  you  formal  and  of- 
ficial; it  is  as  urgent,  as  deeply  from  the  heart  as  though  it  were 
a  summons  from  a  messenger  who  has  come  to  you  directly  from 
his  Master.  I  beg  of  you  to  consider  your  responsibility,  which  is 
greater  than  that  of  other  men.  We  are  brothers  bound  together 
by  a  great  expectation,  a  great  preparation,  a  great  trust.  We  are 
in  training  for  a  day  when  more  will  be  demanded  of  us  than  of 
any  other  men  upon  the  earth.  That  is  no  light  thing.  Let  ua 
hold  ourselves  then  as  souls  upon  whom  a  great  charge  is  laid." 

When  he  had  ended  and  knelt  again  to  pray  Maggie  felt  in- 
stantly the  inevitable  reaction.  The  harmonium  quavered  and 
rumbled  over  the  first  bars  of  some  hymn  which  began  with  the 
words,  "  Cry,  sinner,  cry  before  the  altar  of  the  Lord,"  the  man 
with  the  brown,  creaking  boots  walked  about  with  a  collection 
plate,  an  odour  of  gas-pipes,  badly  heated,  penetrated  the  building, 
the  rain  lashed  the  grey  window-panes.  Maggie,  looking  about 
her,  could  not  see  in  the  pale,  tired  faces  of  the  women  who  sur- 
rounded her  the  ardent  souls  of  a  glorious  band.  Their  belief  in 
the  coming  of  God  had,  it  seemed,  done  very  little  for  them.  It 
might  be  true  that  the  history  of  the  soul  was  of  more  importance 
than  the  history  of  the  body,  but  common  sense  had  something 
to  say. 

Her  mind  went  back  inevitably  to  St.  Dreot's  church,  her  father, 


THE  CHAPEL  71 

Ellen  the  cook.  That  was  what  the  history  of  the  spirit  had  been 
to  her  so  far.  What  reason  had  she  to  suppose  that  this  was 
any  more  real  than  that  had  been?  Nevertheless,  when  at  the 
end  of  the  sermon  she  left  the  building  and  went  once  more  into 
the  soaking  streets  some  sense  of  expectation  was  with  her,  so  that 
she  hastened  into  her  aunt's  house  as  though  she  would  find  that 
some  strange  event  had  occurred  in  her  absence. 

Nothing,  of  course,  had  occurred. 

During  the  afternoon  the  rain  ceased  to  fall  and  a  dim,  grey 
light,  born  of  an  intense  silence,  enveloped  the  town.  About  three 
o'clock  the  aunts  went  out  to  some  religious  gathering  and  Maggie 
was  left  to  herself.  She  discovered  in  Aunt  Elizabeth's  bedroom  a 
bound  volume  of  Good  Words,  and  with  this  seated  herself  by  the 
drawing-room  fire.    Soon  she  slept. 

She  was  awakened  by  a  consciousness  that  some  one  was  in  the 
room  and,  sitting  up,  staring  through  the  gloom,  heard  a  move- 
ment near  the  door,  a  rustle,  a  little  jingle,  a  laugh. 

"  Is  any  one  there  ? "  said  a  high,  shrill  voice. 

Maggie  got  up. 

"  I'm  here,"  she  said. 

Some  one  came  forward;  it  was  the  girl  of  the  blue  dress  who 
had  smiled  at  Maggie  in  chapel.  She  held  out  her  hand — "  I  hope 
you  don't  think  me  too  awful.  My  name's  Caroline  Smith.  How 
do  you  do  ? " 

They  shook  hands.  Maggie,  still  bewildered  by  sleep,  said,  stam- 
mering, "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?    I  beg  your  pardon.    My  aunts " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  the  aunts  I  wanted  to  see,"  replied  Miss  Smith, 
laughing  so  that  a  number  of  little  bracelets  jingled  most  tunefully 
together.  "I  came  to  see  you.  We  smiled  at  one  another  in 
chapel.  It  was  your  first  time,  wasn't  it?  Didn't  you  think  it  all 
awfully  quaint  ?  " 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ? "  said  Maggie  again,  "  and  I'll  ring  for 
the  lamp." 

"  Oh !  don't  ring  for  the  lamp.  I  like  the  dusk.  And  we  can 
make  friends  so  much  better  without  a  lamp.  I  always  say  if  you 
want  to  know  anybody  really  well,  don't  have  a  light." 

She  seated  herself  near  the  fire,  arranging  her  dress  very  care- 
fully, patting  her  hair  beneath  her  hat,  poking  her  shoes  out  from 
beneath  her  skirts,  then  withdrawing  them  again.  "  Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  it  all  ? " 

Maggie  stared.  She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  had  never 
met  any  one  in  the  least  like  this  before. 

"I  do  hope,"  Miss  Smith  went  on,  "that  you  don't  think  me 


72  THE  CAPTIVES 

forward.  I  daresay  you  do.  But  I  can't  bear  wasting  time.  Of 
course  I  heard  that  you  were  coming,  so  then  I  looked  out  for  you 
in  chapel  to-day.  I  thought  you  looked  so  nice  that  I  said  to 
mother,  '  I'll  go  and  see  her  this  very  afternoon.'  Of  course  I've 
known  your  aunts  for  ages.  I'm  always  in  and  out  here  so  that 
it  isn't  as  bad  as  it  seems.  They'll  all  be  back  for  tea  soon  and  I 
want  to  have  a  talk  first." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  was  all  that  Maggie  could  think  of 
"to  say. 

"  You've  come  to  live  here,  haven't  you  ? "  continued  Miss  Smith. 

*  I'm  so  glad.  I  think  you  look  so  nice.  You  don't  mind  my  say- 
ing that,  do  you?  I  always  tell  people  what  I  think  of  them  and 
then  one  knows  where  one  is.  Now,  do  tell  me — I'm  simply  dying 
to  know — what  do  you  think  of  everything  ? " 

"  Well,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "  x  only  arrived  here  yesterday. 
It's  rather  difficult  to  say." 

"  Oh !  I  know.  I  saw  Mr.  Magnus  this  morning  and  he  told  me 
that  he  met  you.    He  said  you  were  ill.    You  don't  look  ill." 

"It  was  very  silly  of  me,"  said  Maggie,  "I  don't  know  what 
made  me  faint.    I've  never  done  such  a  thing  before." 

"  I  used  to  faint  simply  heaps  of  times  when  I  was  a  kid,"  said 
Miss  Smith,  n  I  was  always  doing  it.  I  had  all  sorts  of  doctors. 
They  thought  I'd  never  grow  up.  I'm  not  very  strong  now  really. 
They  say  it's  heart,  but  I  always  say  it  can't  be  that  because  I've 
given   it   all    away."     Here   Miss    Smith   laughed   immoderately. 

*  Weren't  they  the  most  terrible  set  of  frumps  at  chapel  this 
morning  ? " 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  went  on :  "  Mr.  Warlock's  all 
right,  of  course.  I  think  he's  such  a  fine-looking  man,  don't  you? 
Of  course  he's  old  now,  but  his  beard's  rather  attractive  I  think. 
He's  a  duck,  but  isn't  that  harmonium  ghastly?  I  can't  think  why 
they  don't  buy  an  organ,  they're  most  awfully  rich  I  know,  and 
do  simply  nothing  with  their  money." 

"Why  do  you  go,"  said  Maggie,  "if  you  think  it  all  so  dread- 
ful?" 

"  Oh !  I  have  to  go,"  said  Miss  Smith,  "  to  please  mother.  And 
one  has  to  do  something  on  Sunday,  and  besides  one  sees  one's 
friends.  Did  you  notice  Martin  Warlock,  Mr.  Warlock's  son,  you 
know.    He  was  sitting  quite  close  to  me." 

"  He  was  here  yesterday  afternoon,"  said  Maggie  quietly. 

"Oh,  was  he  really?  Now  that  is  interesting.  I  wonder  what 
lie  came  for.    He  scarcely  ever  comes  here.    Did  you  like  him?" 

"I  didn't  speak  to  him,"  said  Maggie. 


THE  CHAPEL  73 

"  Of  course  he's  only  been  here  a  little  time.  He's  Mr.  Warlock's 
only  son.  He's  lived  for  years  abroad  and  then  the  other  day  his 
aunt  died  and  left  him  some  money  so  he  came  home.  His  father 
simply  adores  him.  They  say — but  of  course  I  don't  know.  Don't 
quote  me — that  he's  been  most  awfully  wild.  Drink,  all  sorts  of 
things.  But  of  course  they'll  say  anything  of  anybody.  I  think 
he's  got  such  an  interesting  face,  don't  you  ? " 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Maggie,  "that  you  ought  to  say  those 
things  of  any  one  if  you  don't  know  they're  true." 

"  Oh !  what  a  darling  you  are !  "  said  Miss  Smith.  "  You're  per- 
fectly right — one  oughtn't.  But  every  one  does.  When  you've 
lived  up  here  a  little  while  you  will  too.  And  what  does  it  matter  ? 
You're  sure  to  hear  it  sooner  or  later.  But  that's  right.  You 
keep  me  straight.  I  know  I  talk  far  too  much.  I'm  always  being 
told  about  it.  But  what  can  one  do?  Life's  so  funny — one  must 
talk  about  it  You  haven't  seen  Miss  Avies  and  Mr.  Thurston 
yet,  have  you  ? " 

"No,"  said  Maggie.  "Not  unless  I  saw  them  in  Chapel  this 
morning." 

"  Ah !  they're  the  ones,"  said  Miss  Smith.  "  No,  they  weren't 
there  to-day.  They're  away  on  a  mission.  They  make  things 
hum.  They  quarrel  with  Mr.  Warlock  because  they  say  he  isn't 
noisy  enough.  Mr.  Thurston's  awful  and  Miss  Avies  isn't  much 
better.  You'll  have  them  on  to  you  soon  enough.  But  of  course 
I'm  not  one  of  the  Inside  Ones." 

"  Inside  Ones  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  the  real  ones.  They'll  be  at  you  after  a  time  and  ask  you 
if  you'll  join  them.  The  congregation  this  morning  was  just  any- 
body who  likes  to  come.  But  the  real  brethren  have  to  swear  vows 
and  be  baptized  and  all  sorts  of  things.  But  that's  only  if  you 
believe  God's  really  coming  in  a  year  or  two.  Of  course  I  don't, 
although  sometimes  it  makes  one  quite  creepy — all  down  one's 
spine.    In  case,  after  all,  He  really  should  come,  you  know." 

"  Are  my  aunts  inside  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Of  course  they  are.  Miss  Anne  Cardinal's  one  of  the  chief  of 
them.  Miss  Avies  is  jealous  as  anything  of  her,  but  your  aunt's 
so  quiet  that  Miss  Avies  can't  do  anything.  I  just  love  your  aunts. 
I  think  they're  sweet.  You  will  be  a  friend  of  mine,  won't  you  ?  I 
like  you  so  much.  I  like  your  being  quiet  and  telling  me  when  I 
talk  too  much.  I  sound  silly,  I  know,  but  it's  really  mother's  fault, 
as  I  always  tell  her.  She  never  brought  me  up  at  all.  She  likes  me 
to  wear  pretty  things  and  doesn't  care  about  anything  else.  Poor 
mother!    She's  had  such  a  time  with  father;  he's  one  of  the  most 


74  THE  CAPTIVES 

serious  of  all  the  Brethren  and  never  has  time  to  think  ahout  any  of 

•  us.    Then  he's  in  a  bank  all  the  week,  where  he  can't  think  about " 

God  much  because  he  makes  mistakes  about  figures  if  he  does,  so 

he  has  to  put  it  all  into  Sunday.    We  will  be  friends,  won't  we  ? n-^ 

It  came  to  Maggie  with  a  strange  ironic  little  pang  that  this 
was  the  first  time  that  any  one  had  asked  for  her  friendship. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said. 

•Miss  Smith's  further  confidences  were  interrupted  by  the  aunts 
and  behind  them,  to  Maggie's  great  surprise,  Mr.  Warlock  and 
his  son.  The  sudden  descent  of  these  gentlemen  upon  the  still 
lingering  echoes  of  Miss  Caroline  Smith's  critical  and  explana- 
tory remarks  embarrassed  Maggie.  Not  so  Miss  Smith.  She  kissed 
both  the  aunts  with  an  emphasis  that  they  apparently  appreciated 
for  they  smiled  and  Aunt  Anne  laid  her  hand  affectionately  upon 
the  girl's  sleeve.  Maggie,  watching,  felt  the  strangest  little  pang 
of  jealousy.  That  was  the  way  that  she  should  have  behaved,  been 
warm  and  demonstrative  from  the  beginning — but  she  could  not. 

Even  now  she  stood  back  in  the  shadows  of  the  room,  watch- 
ing them  all  with  large  grave  eyes,  hoping  that  they  would  not 
notice  her. 

With  Mr.  Warlock  and  his  son  also  Miss  Smith  seemed  per- 
fectly at  home,  chattering,  laughing  up  into  young  Warlock's  eyes, 
as  though  there  were  some  especial  understanding  between  them. 
Maggie,  nevertheless,  fancied  that  he,  young  Warlock,  was  not 
listening  to  her.  His  eyes  wandered.  He  had  that  same  restless- 
ness of  body  that  she  had  before  noticed  in  him,  swinging  a  little 
on  his  legs  set  apart,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  thick  broad 
back.  He  had  some  compelling  interest  for  her.  He  had  had  that, 
she  now  realised,  since  the  first  moment  that  she  had  seen  him. 
It  might  be  that  the  things  that  that  girl  had  told  her  about  him 
increased  her  interest  and,  perhaps  her  sympathy  ?  But  it  was  his 
strange  detached  air  of  observation  that  held  her — as  though  he 
were  a  being  from  some  other  planet  watching  them  all,  liking 
them,  but  bearing  no  kind  of  relation  to  them  except  that  of  a 
cheerful  observer — it  was  this  that  attracted  her.  She  liked  his 
thick,  rough  untidy  hair,  the  healthy  red  brown  of  his  cheeks,  his 
light  blue  eyes,  his  air  of  vigour  and  bodily  health. 

As  she  waited  she  was  startled  into  consciousness  by  a  voice  in 
her  ear.    She  turned  to  find  the  elder  Mr.  Warlock  beside  her. 

"You  will  forgive  my  speaking  to  you,  Miss  Cardinal.  I  saw 
you  at  our  Chapel  this  morning." 

His  great  height  towered  above  her  short  clumsy  figure;  he 
seemed  to  peer  down  at  her  from  above  his  snowy  beard  as  though 


THE  CHAPEL  75 

he  were  the  inhabitant  of  some  other  world.  His  voice  was  of  an 
extreme  kindliness  and  his  eyes,  when  she  looked  up  at  him,  shone 
with  friendliness.  She  found  herself,  to  her  own  surprise,  talking 
to  him  with  great  ease.  He  was  perfectly  simple,  human  and  un- 
affected.   He  asked  her  about  her  country. 

"  I  spend  my  days  in  longing  to  get  back  to  my  own  place — and 
perhaps  I  shall  never  see  it  again.  I  was  born  in  Wiltshire — Salis- 
bury Plain.  My  great-grandfather,  my  grandfather,  my  father, 
they  all  were  ministers  of  our  Chapel  there  before  me.  They  had 
no  thought  in  their  day  of  London.  I  have  always  missed  that 
space,  the  quiet.  I  shall  always  miss  it.  Towns  are  not  friendly 
to  me." 

She  told  him  about  St.  Dreots,  a  little  about  her  father. 

"  Ah,  you're  lucky ! "  he  said.  "  You'll  return  many  times  before 
you  die — and  you'll  find  no  change  there.  Those  places  do  not 
change  as  towns  do." 

They  were  standing  apart  from  the  others  near  the  window. 
He  suddenly  put  his  hand  on  her  arm,  smiling  at  her. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  mind  me  saying  '  My  dear,' 
but  an  old  man  has  his  privileges — will  you  come  and  see  us  when- 
ever you  care  to?  My  wife  will  be  so  glad.  I  know  that  at  first 
one  can  be  lonely  in  this  great  place.  Just  come  in  when  you 
please." 

He  took  her  hand  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  back  to  Aunt 
Anne,  who  was  now  pouring  out  tea  at  a  little  table  by  the  fire. 

Martin  Warlock,  as  his  father  moved  away,  came  across  to  her. 
She  had  known  that  he  would  do  that  as  though  something  had 
been  arranged  between  them.  When  he  came  to  her,  however,  he 
stood  there  before  her  and  had  nothing  to  say.  She  also  had  noth- 
ing to  say.    His  eyes  searched  her  face,  then  he  broke  out  abruptly. 

"Are  you  better?" 

"  I'm  all  right,"  she  answered  him  brusquely.  "  Please  don't  say 
anything  about  yesterday.    It  was  an  idiotic  thing  to  do." 

"  That's  what  I  came  about  to-day — to  see  how  you  were,"  he 
answered  her,  his  eyes  laughing  at  her.  "  I  should  never  have 
dreamed  of  coming  otherwise,  you  know.  I  saw  you  in  chapel  this 
morning  so  I  guessed  you  were  all  right,  but  it  seemed  such  bad 
luck  fainting  right  off  the  minute  you  got  here." 

•  I've  never  fainted  in  my  life  before,"  she  answered. 

"  No,  you  don't  look  the  sort  of  girl  who'd  faint.  But  I  sup- 
pose you've  had  a  rotten  time  with  your  father  and  all." 

His  eyes  still  searched  for  hers.  She  determined  that  she  would 
not  look  at  him;  her  heart  was  beating  strangely  and,  although 


76  THE  CAPTIVES 

she  did  not  look,  she  could  in  some  suh-conscious  way  see  the  rough 
toss  of  his  hair  against  his  forehead;  she  could  smell  the  stuff  of 
his  coat.    But  she  would  not  look  up. 

"  You're  going  to  live  here,  aren't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I've  only  just  come  back,"  he  went  on. 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

"  Oh !  of  course ;  that  girl,"  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  tea-table  and  laughing.  "  She  told  you.  She's  been  here  this 
afternoon,  hasn't  she?  She  chatters  like  anything.  Don't  you 
believe  half  she  says." 

There  was  another  pause.  The  voices  at  the  tea-table  seemed  to 
come  from  very  far  away. 

Then  he  said  roughly,  moving  a  very  little  nearer  to  her: 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come." 

At  that  she  raised  her  eyes,  her  cheeks  flushed.  She  looked  him 
full  in  the  face,  her  head  up.  Her  heart  thundered  in  her  breast. 
She  felt  as  though  she  were  at  the  beginning  of  some  tremendous 
adventure — an  adventure  enthralling,  magnificent — and  perilous. 


PART  II 
THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 


( 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  WARLOCKS 


THERE  is  beyond  question,  in  human  nature,  such  a  thing  as     j 
an  inherited  consciousness  of  God,  and  this  consciousness, 


if  inherited  through  many  generations,  may  defy  apparent  reason, 
all  progress  of  vaunted  civilisations,  and  even,  it  may  be  suggested, 
the  actual  challenge  of  death  itself. 

This  consciousness  of  God  had  been  quite  simply  the  founda- 
tion of  Mr.  Warlock's  history.  In  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  it  expressed  itself  in  the  formula  of  John  Wesley's  re- 
vival; the  John  Wesley  of  that  day  preached  up  and  down  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  Northumber- 
land, Durham,  and  being  a  fighter,  a  preacher  and  a  simple-minded 
human  being  at  one  and  the  same  time,  received  a  large  following 
and  died  full  of  years  and  honours. 

It  was  somewhere  about  1830  that  this  John's  grandson,  James 
Warlock,  Martin's  grandfather,  broke  from  the  main  body  and 
led  his  little  flock  on  to  the  wide  spaces  of  Salisbury  Plain.  James 
Warlock,  unlike  his  father  and  grandfather,  was  a  little  sickly 
man  with  a  narrow  chest,  no  limbs  to  speak  of  and  a  sharp  pale 
face.  Martin  had  a  faded  daguerreotype  of  him  set  against  the 
background  of  the  old  Wiltshire  kitchen,  his  black  clothes  hung 
upon  him  like  a  disguise,  his  eyes  burning  even  upon  that  faded 
picture  with  the  fire  of  his  spirit.     For  James  Warlock  was  a 

C mystic,  a  visionary,  a  prophet.  He  walked  and  talked  with  God; 
in  no  jesting  spirit  it  was  said  that  he  knew  God's  plans  and  could 
turn  the  world  into  a  blazing  coal  so  soon  as  he  pleased.  It  was 
because  he  knew  with  certainty  that  God  would,  in  person,  soon 
descend  upon  the  earth  that  he  separated  from  the  main  body  and 
led  his  little  band  down  into  Wiltshire.  Here  on  the  broad  gleam- 
ing Plain  they  prepared  for  God's  coming.  Named  now  the  Kings- 
cote  Brethren  after  their  new  abode,  they  built  a  Chapel,  sat  down 
and  waited.  Then  in  1840  the  prophet  declared  that  the  Coming 
was  not  yet,  that  it  would  be  in  the  next  generation,  but  that 
their  preparations  must  not  be  relaxed.  He  himself  prepared  by 
taking  to  himself  a  wife,  a  calm  untroubled  countrywoman  of  the 
place,  that  she  might  give  him  a  son  whom  he  might  prepare,  in 

79 


80  THE  CAPTIVES 

due  course,  for  his  great  destiny.  John,  father  of  Martin,  was 
born,  a  large-limbed,  smiling  infant,  with  the  tranquillity  of  his 
mother  as  well  as  something  of  the  mysticism  of  his  father. 

Upon  him,  as  upon  his  ancestors,  this  consciousness  of  God  had 
most  absolutely  descended.  Never  for  a  moment  did  he  question 
the  facts  that  his  father  told  to  him.  He  grew  into  a  giant  of 
health  and  strength,  and  those  who,  in  those  old  days,  saw  them 
tell  that  it  was  a  strange  picture  to  watch  the  little  wizened  man, 
walking  with  odd  emotional  gestures,  with  little  hops  and  leaps 
and  swinging  of  the  arms  beside  the  firm  long  stride  of  the  young 
man  towering  above  him. 

When  young  John  was  twenty-three  years  of  age  his  father  was 
found  dead  under  a  tree  upon  a  summer's  evening.  His  expres- 
sion was  of  a  man  challenging  some  new  and  startling  discovery; 
he  had  found  perhaps  new  visions  to  confront  his  gaze.  They 
buried  him  in  Kingscote  and  his  son  reigned  in  his  stead. 

But  they  were  approaching  new  and  modern  times.  These 
old  days  of  simple  faith  and  superstition  were  passing  never  to 
return.  There  were  new  elements  in  the  Kingscote  company  of 
souls  and  these  elements  demanded  freer  play  both  of  thought  and 
action.  They  argued  that,  as  to  them  alone  out  of  all  the  world 
the  time  and  manner  of  God's  coming  was  known,  they  should 
influence  with  their  activities  some  wider  sphere  than  this  Wilt- 
shire village. 

John  Warlock  clung  with  all  his  strength  to  the  old  world  that 
he  knew,  the  world  that  gave  him  leisure  and  quiet  for  contem- 
plation. He  had  no  wish  to  bring  in  converts,  to  stir  England  into 
a  frenzy  of  terror  and  anticipation.  God  gave  him  no  command  to 
spread  his  beliefs;  even  his  father,  fanatic  though  he  had  been, 
had  cherished  his  own  small  company  of  saints  as  souls  to  whom 
these  things,  hidden  deliberately  from  the  outside  world,  had 
especially  been  entrusted. 

So  long  as  he  could  he  resisted;  then  when  he  was  about  forty, 
somewhere  around  1880,  the  Kingscote  Brethren  moved  to  London. 
In  this  year,  1907,  John  Warlock  was  sixty-seven  and  the  Kings- 
cote Brethren  had  had  their  Chapel  in  Solomon's  Place,  behind 
Garrick  Street,  for  twenty-seven  years.  In  1880  John  Warlock 
had  married  Amelia,  daughter  of  Francis  Stephens,  merchant.  In 
1881  a  daughter,  Amy,  was  born  to  them;  in  1883,  Martin;  they 
had  no  other  children.  Martin  was  at  the  time  of  Maggie's  arrival 
in  London  twenty-four  years  of  age. 

Upon  a  certain  fine  evening,  a  fortnight  after  Martin  Warlock's 
first  meeting  with  Maggie,  he  arrived  at  the  door  of  his  house  in. 


THE  WARLOCKS  81 

Garrick  Street,  and  having  forgotten  his  latch-key,  was  compelled 
to  ring  the  old  screaming  bell  that  had  long  survived  its  respectable 
reputable  days.  The  Warlocks  had  lived  during  the  last  ten  years 
in  an  upper  part  above  a  curiosity  shop  four  doors  from  the  Garrick 
Club  in  Garrick  Street.  There  was  a  house-door  that  abutted 
on  to  the  shop-door  and,  passing  through  it,  you  stumbled  along  a 
little  dark  passage  like  a  rabbit  warren,  up  some  crooked  stairs, 
and  found  yourself  in  the  Warlock  country  without  ever  troubling 
Mr.  Spencer,  the  stout,  hearty,  but  inartistic  owner  of  the  curiosity 
shop. 

On  the  present  occasion,  after  pulling  the  bell,  Martin  stared 
down  the  street  as  though  somewhere  in  the  dim  golden  light  of 
its  farthest  recesses  he  would  find  an  answer  to  a  question  that  he 
was  asking.  The  broad  sturdy  strength  of  his  body,  the  easy 
good-temper  of  his  expression  spoke  of  a  life  lived  physically  rather 
than  mentally.  And  yet  this  was  only  half  true.  Martin  Warlock 
should  at  this  time  have  been  a  quite  normal  young  man  with 
normal  desires,  normal  passions,  normal  instincts.  Such  he  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  had  he  not  had  his  early  environment  of 
egotism,  mystery  and  clap-trap — had  he,  also,  not  developed  through 
his  childhood  and  youth  his  passionate  devotion  to  his  father. 
The  religious  ceremonies  of  his  young  days  had  made  him  self- 
conscious  and  introspective  and,  although  during  his  years  abroad 
he  had  felt  on  many  occasions  that  he  was  completely  freed  from 
his  early  bondage,  scenes,  thoughts  and  longings  would  recur  and 
remind  him  that  he  was  celebrating  his  liberty  too  soon.  The 
licences  that  to  most  men  in  their  first  youth  are  incidental  and 
easily  forgotten  engraved  themselves  upon  Martin's  reluctant  soul 
because  of  that  religious  sense  that  had  been  driven  in  upon  him 
at  the  very  hour  of  his  birth.  He  could  not  sin  and  forget.  He 
sinned  and  was  remorseful,  was  impatient  at  his  remorse,  sinned 
again  to  rid  himself  of  it  and  was  more  remorseful  still.  The  main 
impulse  of  his  life  at  this  time  was  his  self-distrust.  He  fancied 
that  by  returning  home  he  might  regain  confidence.  He  longed  to 
rid  himself  of  the  conviction  that  he  was  "  set  aside "  by  some 
fate  or  other,  call  it  God  or  not  as  you  please.  He  thought  that 
he  hurt  all  those  whom  he  loved  when  his  only  longing  was  to  do 
them  good.  He  used  suddenly  to  leave  his  friends  because  he 
thought  that  he  was  doing  them  harm.  It  was  as  though  he  heard 
some  Power  saying  to  him :  "  I  marked  you  out  for  my  own  in  the 
beginning  and  you  can't  escape  me.  You  may  struggle  as  you  like. 
Until  you  surrender  everything  shall  turn  to  dust  in  your  hands." 
He  came  back  to  England  determined  to  assert  his  independence. 


82  THE  CAPTIVES 

He  gazed  now  at  the  placidity  of  Garrick  Street  with  the  in- 
tensity of  some  challenging  "  Stand  and  Deliver !  "  All  that  the 
street  had  to  give  for  the  moment  was  a  bishop  and  an  actor 
mounting  the  steps  of  the  Garrick  Club,  an  old  lady  with  a  black 
bonnet  and  a  milk- jug,  a  young  man  in  a  hurry  and  a  failure 
selling  bootlaces.  None  of  them  could  be  expected  to  offer  re- 
assurance to  Martin — none  of  these  noticed  him — but  an  intelligent 
observer,  had  such  a  stranger  to  Garrick  Street  been  present,  might 
have  found  that  gaze  of  interest.  Martin's  physical  solidity  could 
not  entirely  veil  the  worried  uncertain  glance  that  flashed  for  a 
moment  and  then,  with  a  little  reassuring  sigh,  was  gone. 

The  door  opened,  a  girl  looked  for  a  moment  into  the  street, 
he  passed  inside.  Having  stumbled  up  the  dark  stairs,  pushed  back 
their  private  entrance,  hung  up  his  coat  in  the  little  hall,  with  a 
deliberate  effort  he  shook  off  the  suspicions  that  had,  during  the 
last  moments,  troubled  him  and  prepared  to  meet  his  mother  and 
sister. 

Because  he  had  a  happy,  easy  and  affectionate  temperament 
absence  always  gilded  his  friends  with  gifts  and  qualities  that  their 
presence  only  too  often  denied.  His  years  abroad  had  given  him  a 
picture  of  his  mother  and  sister  that  the  few  weeks  of  his  return 
had  already  dimmed  and  obscured.  His  mother's  weekly  letters 
had,  during  ten  long  years,  built  up  an  image  of  her  as  the 
dearest  old  lady  in  the  world.  He  had  always,  since  a  child,  seen 
her  in  a  detached  way — his  deep  and  permanent  relations  had 
been  with  his  father — but  those  letters,  of  which  he  had  now  a 
deep  and  carefully  cherished  pile,  gave  him  a  most  charming  pic- 
ture of  her.  They  had  not  been  clever  nor  deep  nor  indeed  very 
interesting,  but  they  had  been  affectionate  and  tender  with  all  the 
gentleness  of  the  figure  that  he  remembered  sitting  in  its  lace  cap 
beside  the' fire. " 

After  three  weeks  of  home  life  he  was  compelled  to  confess  that 
he  did  not  in  the  least  understand  his  mother.  His  intuitions 
about  people  were  not  in  fact  of  a  very  penetrating  character. 

His  mother  appeared  to  all  her  world  as  a  "  sweet  old  lady," 
but  even  Martin  could  already  perceive  that  was  not  in  the  least 
what  she  really  was.  He  had  seen  her  old  hands  tremble  with 
suppressed  temper  on  the  very  day  after  his  arrival;  he  had  seen 
her  old  lips  white  with  anger  because  the  maid  had  brought  her 
the  wrong  shawl.  Old  ladies  must  of  course  have  their  fancies, 
but  his  mother  had  some  fixed  and  fierce  purpose  in  her  life  that 
was  quite  beyond  his  powers  of  penetration.  It  might  of  course 
have  something  to  do  with  her  attachment  to  his  father.     At- 


THE  WAKLOCKS  83 

tached  Martin  could  see  that  she  was,  but  at  the  same  time  com- 
pletely and  eternally  outside  her  husband's  spiritual  life.  That 
might  have  been  perhaps  in  the  first  place  by  her  own  desire — she 
did  not  want  "  to  be  bothered  with  all  that  nonsense."  But  cer- 
tainly all  these  years  with  him  had  worked  upon  her:  she  was  not 
perhaps  so  sure  now  that  it  was  all  "  nonsense."  She  wanted,  it 
might  be,  a  closer  alliance  with  him,  which  she  could  not  have 
because  she  had  once  rejected  the  chance  of  it.  Martin  did  not 
know;  he  was  aware  that  there  was  a  great  deal  going  on  in  the 
house  that  he  did  not  fathom.  Amy,  his  sister,  knew.  There  was 
an  alliance  between  his  mother  and  his  sister  deep  and  strong,  as 
he  could  see — he  did  not  yet  know  that  it  was  founded  very  largely 
on  dislike  and  fear  of  himself. 

How  fantastic  these  theories  of  fire  and  passion  must  seem,  he 
amused  himself  by  considering,  to  any  one  who  knew  his  mother 
only  from  the  outside.  She  was  sitting  to-day  as  always  in  her 
little  pink  and  white  chintz  drawing-room,  a  bright  fire  burning 
and  a  canary  singing  in  a  cage  beside  the  window.  The  rest  of 
the  house  was  ugly  and  strangely  uninhabited  as  though  the  War- 
locks had  merely  pitched  their  tents  for  a  night  and  were  moving 
forward  to-morrow,  but  this  little  room,  close,  smelling  of  musk  and 
sweet  biscuits  (a  silver  box  with  lemon-shaped  biscuits  in  it  stood 
on  a  little  table  near  the  old  lady),  with  its  pretty  pink  curtains, 
its  canary,  and  its  heavy  and  softly  closing  door,  was  like  a  place 
enclosed,  dedicated  to  the  world,  and  ruled  by  a  remorseless  spirit 
of  comfort. 

Mrs.  Warlock  was  only  sixty  years  of  age,  but  she  had,  a 
number  of  years  ago,  declared  herself  an  invalid,  and  now  never, 
unless  she  drove  on  a  very  fine  afternoon,  left  the  house.  Whether 
she  were  truly  an  invalid  nobody  knew;  she  presented  certainly  a 
most  healthy  appearance  with  her  shell-pink  cheeks,  her  snow-white 
hair,  her  firm  bosom  rising  and  falling  with  such  gentle  regularity 
beneath  the  tight  and  shining  black  silk  that  covered  it,  her  clear 
bright  eyes  like  shining  glass.  She  always  sat  in  a  deep  arm-chair 
covered  with  the  chintz  of  the  curtains  and  filled  with  plump  pil- 
lows of  pink  silk.  A  white  filmy  shawl  was  spread  over  her  knees, 
at  her  throat  was  a  little  bright  coquettish  blue  bow  that  added, 
amazingly,  to  the  innocent  charm  of  her  old  age.  On  her  white 
hair,  crinkled  and  arranged  as  though  it  were  some  ornament,  not 
quite  a  wig  but  still  apart  from  the  rest  of  her  body,  she  wore  a 
lace  cap.  She  was  fond  of  knitting;  she  made  warm  woollen  com- 
forters and  underclothing  for  the  children  of  the  poor.  She  was 
immensely  fond  of  conversation,  being  of  an  inquisitive  nature. 


84  THE  CAPTIVES 

But  above  all  was  she  fond  of  eating.  This  covetousness  of  food 
had  grown  on  her  as  her  years  had  increased.  The  thought  of 
foods  of  various  kinds  filled  many  hours  of  her  day,  and  the  desire 
for  pleasant  things  to  eat  was  the  motive  of  many  of  her  most  de- 
liberate actions.  She  cherished  warmly  and  secretly  this  little  lust 
of  hers.  None  of  the  family  was  aware  of  the  grip  that  the  desire 
had  upon  her  nor  of  the  speed  with  which  the  desire  was  growing. 
She  did  not  ask  directly  for  the  things  that  she  liked,  but 
manoeuvred  with  little  plots  and  intrigues  to  obtain  them.  The 
cook  in  the  Warlock  household  had  neither  art  nor  science  at  her 
disposal,  but  as  it  happened  old  Mrs.  Warlock  lusted  after  very 
simple  things.  She  loved  rice-pudding;  her  heart  beat  fast  in  her 
breast  when  she  thought  of  the  brown  crinkly  skin  of  the  rich 
warm  milk  of  a  true  rice-pudding;  also  she  loved  hot  buttered 
toast,  very  buttery  so  that  it  soaked  your  fingers;  also  beef-steak 
pudding  with  gravy  rich  and  dark  and  its  white  covering  thick 
and  heavy;  she  also  loved  hot  and  sweet  tea  and  the  little  cakes 
that  Amy  sometimes  bought,  red  and  yellow  and  pink,  held  in  white 
paper — also  plum-pudding,  which,  alas!  only  came  at  Christmas- 
time and  wedding-cake,  which  scarcely  ever  came  at  all. 

This  vice,  of  which  she  was  almost  triumphantly  conscious  as 
though  it  were  a  proof  of  her  enduring  vitality,  she  clutched 
eagerly  to  herself.  She  did  not  wish  that  any  human  being  should 
perceive  it.  Of  her  husband  she  was  not  afraid — it  would  never 
possibly  occur  to  him  that  food  was  of  importance  to  any  one; 
Amy  might  discover  what  she  pleased,  she  was  in  strong  alliance 
with  her  mother  and  would  never  betray  her. 

Her  fear  was  of  Martin.  She  feared  very  deeply  his  influence 
upon  her  husband.  During  Martin's  absence  she  and  Amy  had 
managed  very  successfully  to  have  the  house  as  they  wished  it; 
John  Warlock,  the  master,  had  been  too  deeply  occupied  with  the 
affairs  of  the  soul  to  be  concerned  also  with  the  affairs  of  the 
body. 

She  had,  she  believed,  exercised  an  increasing  influence  over 
him.  She  had  always  loved  him  with  a  fierce  and  selfish  love,  but 
now,  when  he  was  nearly  seventy,  and  to  both  of  them  only  a  few 
years  of  earthly  ambition  could  remain,  she  desired,  with  all  the 
urgent  ferocity  of  a  human  being  through  whose  fingers  the  last 
sands  of  his  opportunity  are  slipping,  to  seize  and  hold  and  have 
him  entirely  hers.  He  had  always  eluded  her;  although  he  had 
once  certainly  loved  her  with,  at  any  rate,  a  semblance  of  earthly 
passion,  his  spiritual  life  had  always  come  between  them,  holding 
him  from  her,  helping  him  to  escape  when  he  pleased,  tantalising, 


THE  WARLOCKS  85 

sometimes  maddening  too.  She  was  certainly  now  not  so  ready  to 
dismiss  that  spiritual  life  as  once  she  had  been.  She  was  herself 
an  old  heathen ;  for  herself  she  believed  in  nothing  but  her  earthly 
appetites  and  desires,  but  for  him  and  for  others  there  might  be 
something  in  it,  .  .  .  and  perhaps  some  day  some  dreadful 
thing  would  occur  ...  a  chariot  of  Fire  descend  upon  the 
Chapel  and  some  sort  of  a  fierce  and  hostile  God  deliver  judgment; 
she  only  hoped  that  she  would  be  dead  before  then. 

Meanwhile  she  and  Amy  had,  undoubtedly,  during  these  last 
years,  increased  their  influence  over  him.  He  was  not  aware  of  it, 
but  as  he  was  growing  now  older  and  weaker — he  had  had  trouble 
with  his  heart — he  inevitably  depended  more  upon  them.  The  old 
lady  began  to  count  upon  her  triumph.  Then  came  Martin's 
return. 

She  had  forgotten  Martin.  It  is  true  that  she  had  written  to 
him  every  week  during  his  long  absence,  but  her  letters  had  been 
all  part  of  the  "  dear  old  lady  "  habit  which  was  put  on  by  her 
just  as  an  actress  prepares  herself,  nightly,  for  a  character  in  which 
she  knows  she  is  the  greatest  possible  success.  k<  Thank  you  very 
much,  Mrs.  Smith.  .  .  .  No,  we've  not  heard  from  Martin  now 
for  three  weeks.  Careless  boy!  I  always  write  myself  every  week 
so  that  he  may  have  at  any  rate  one  little  word  from  home.  ..." 

She  had  never  felt  that  she  had  any  real  share  in  his  life;  he 
had  always  belonged  to  his  father;  nor  was  she  a  woman  who 
cared  about  children.  Martin  had  long  ago  become  to  her  simply 
an  opportunity  for  further  decoration.  Since  his  return  it  had 
been  quite  another  affair.  In  one  moment  she  had  seen  her  power 
over  her  husband  shrivel  and  disappear.  Martin  was  home  again. 
Martin  must  be  here,  Martin  must  be  there ;  Martin  must  see  this, 
Martin  must  do  this.  She  had  seen  before  in  earlier  days 
the  force  of  her  husband's  passion  when  it  was  roused.  There  was 
something  now  in  his  reception  of  their  son  that  terrified  her. 
She  had  at  once  perceived  that  Amy  was  as  deeply  moved  as  she. 
The  girl,  plain,  awkward,  silent,  morose,  had  always  adored  her 
father,  but  she  had  never  known  how  to  approach  him.  She  was 
not  clever,  she  had  not  been  able  to  enter  into  his  life  although 
she  would  have  done  anything  that  he  desired  of  her.  What  she 
had  suffered  during  those  early  years  when,  as  a  little  ugly  girl, 
she  had  watched  her  brother,  accepted,  received  into  the  Brother- 
hood, praised  for  his  wisdom,  his  intimacy  with  God,  his  marvel- 
lous saintly  promise,  praised  for  these  things  when  she  had  known 
all  his  weaknesses,  how  he  had  slipped  away  to  a  music-hall  when 
he  was  only  fourteen  and  smoked  and  drank  there,  how  he  had 


86  THE  CAPTIVES 

laughed  at  Mr.  Thurston's  dropping  of  his  "  h's  "  or  at  Miss  Avies' 
prayer  meetings !  No  one  ever  knew  what  in  those  years  she  had 
thought  of  her  brother.  Then,  after  Martin  had  flung  it  all  away 
and  escaped  abroad,  she  had  begun,  slowly,  painfully,  but  with 
dogged  persistence,  to  make  herself  indispensable  to  her  father; 
Martin  she  had  put  out  of  her  mind.  He  would  never  return,  or, 
at  least,  the  interval  of  his  departure  should  have  been  severe 
enough  to  separate  him  for  ever  from  his  father.    .    .    . 

In  a  moment's  glance,  in  a  clasp  of  the  hand,  in  a  flash  of  the 
eye,  she  had  seen  that  love  leap  up  in  her  father's  heart  as  strong 
as  ever  it  had  been.  Every  day  of  Martin's  residence  in  the  house 
had  added  fire  to  that  love.  She  was  a  good  woman;  she  struggled 
hard  to  beat  down  her  jealousy.  She  prayed.  She  lay  for  hours 
at  night  struggling  with  her  sins.  If  Martin  had  been  worthy, 
if  he  had  shown  love  in  return,  but,  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul, 
as  the  days  increased  she  despised  him — despised  him  for  his  light 
heart,  his  care  of  worldly  things,  his  utter  lack  of  comprehension 
of  their  father,  his  scorn,  even  now  but  badly  concealed,  of  all  the 
sanctities  that  she  had  in  reverence. 

Therefore  she  drew  near  to  her  mother  and  the  two  of  them 
watched  and  waited.    .   .   . 

His  mother  was  knitting.  She  lifted  to  him  her  pink  wrinkled 
face  and,  her  spectacles  balanced  on  the  end  of  her  nose,  smiled 
the  smile  of  the  dearest  old  lady  in  the  world. 

"  Well,  dear,  and  have  you  had  a  pleasant  day  ? " 

"All  right,  mother,  thank  you.  Funny  thing;  met  a  man  in 
the  street,  hadn't  seen  for  five  years.  Saw  him  last  in  Rio — 
Funny  thing.  Well,  we  lunched  together.  Not  a  bad  fellow — 
Seen  a  thing  or  two,  he  has." 

Mrs.  Warlock  counted  her  stitches.  "Fourteen,  fifteen,  sixteen. 
.   .   .    How  nice  for  you,  dear.    What  was  his  name  ? " 

"  Thompson  ...  I  say,"  Martin  suddenly  raised  his  head 
as  though  he  heard  something,  "  where's  Amy  ?  " 

"  Changing.  She's  been  paying  a  call  on  the  Miss  Cardinals. 
Thought  it  would  be  polite  because  of  the  new  niece. — Six,  seven, 
eight  and  nine.    ..." 

"  What  did  she  think  of  her? " 

"Of  whom,  dear?" 

"  Of  the  niece." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  she  liked  her  very  much.  She  said  that 
she  was  plain  and  silent — and  looked  cross,  Amy  thought." 

"  Oh  yes,  Amy  would."  His  face,  as  was  his  way  when  he  was 
vexed,  flushed  very  slowly,  the  deeper  red  rising  through  the  red- 


THE  WARLOCKS  87 

brown  until,  ceasing  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  it  left  a  white 
line  beneath  his  hair.    "  She  isn't  cross  a  bit." 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  It  isn't  my  opinion.  I  only  tell  you  what 
Amy  said.  People  here  don't  seem  to  like  her.  Mrs.  Smith  was 
telling  me  yesterday  that  she's  so  difficult  to  talk  to  and  seems  to 
know  nothing  about  anything,  poor  girl."  ., 

"  Mrs.  Smith ! "  He  swung  his  body  on  his  hips  indignantly. 
"A  lot  she  knows  about  anything!  I  hate  that  woman  and  her 
chattering  daughter." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure ;  Mrs.  Smith  always  seems  to 
me  very  kind." 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  had  suddenly  remembered  some- 
thing. 

"I  say — is  it  true  what  Amy  says,  that  I  woke  you  up  this 
morning  when  I  went  out  by  banging  my  door  ? " 

"I'm  sure  you  didn't. — Amy  shouldn't  say  such  things.  And 
if  you  did  what  does  it  matter?  I  sleep  so  badly  that  half  an 
hour  more  or  less  makes  very  little  difference." 

"Well,  she  says  so — "  He  went  on,  dropping  his  voice:  "I 
say,  mother,  what's  the  matter  with  Amy?  Why's  she  so  sick  with 
me  ?    I  haven't  done  anything  to  offend  her,  have  I  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  What  a  silly  boy  you  are,  Martin !  Nine,  ten, 
eleven.  .  .  .  There!  that's  enough  for  this  evening.  I'll  finish 
it  in  another  day.  You  mustn't  mind  Amy,  Martin.  She  isn't 
always  very  well." 

The  door  opened  and  Amy  came  in.  She  was  a  tall  gaunt  woman 
who  looked  a  great  deal  older  than  her  brother.  She  did  not  make 
the  best  of  herself,  brushing  her  thin  black  hair  straight  back 
from  her  bony  forehead.  She  had  a  habit  of  half  closing  her  eyes 
when  she  peered  at  some  one  as  though  she  could  not  see.  She 
should,  long  ago,  have  worn  spectacles,  but  from  some  strange  half- 
conscious  vanity  had  always  refused  to  do  so.  Every  year  her  sight 
grew  worse.  She  was  wearing  now  a  dress  of  black  silk,  very  badly 
made,  cut  to  display  her  long  skinny  neck  and  bony  shoulders. 
She  wore  her  clothes  as  though  she  struggled  between  a  disdain 
for  such  vanities  and  a  desire  to  appear  attractive.  Her  manner 
of  twisting  her  eyelids  and  wrinkling  her  nose  gave  her  a  peevish 
expression,  but,  behind  that,  there  was  a  hint  of  pathos,  a  half- 
seen  glimpse  of  a  soul  that  desired  friendship  and  affection.  She 
was  very  tall  and  there  was  something  masculine  in  the  long 
angularity  of  her  limbs.  She  offered  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
broad  and  ruddy  Martin.  There  was,  however,  something  in  the 
eyes  of  each — some  sudden  surprised  almost  visionary  flash  that 


88  THE  CAPTIVES 

came  and  went  that  showed  them  to  be  the  children  of  the  same 
father.  To  Mrs.  Warlock  they  bore  no  resemblance  whatever. 
Amy  stopped  when  she  saw  her  brother  as  though  she  had  not 
expected  him  to  be  there. 

"  Well,  Martin,"  she  said — then  came  forward  and  sat  in  a  chair 
opposite  her  mother. 

"  Mr.  Thurston's  coming  to  supper,"  she  said. 

Martin  frowned.    "  Oh,  hang  it,  what  for  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  He's  taking  me  to  Miss  Avies'  Bible  meeting,"  Amy  answered 
coldly.  "  What  a  baby  you  are  about  people,  Martin.  I  should 
have  thought  all  your  living  abroad  so  much  would  have  made  you 
understanding.  But  you're  like  the  rest.  You  must  have  every 
one  cut  to  the  same  pattern." 

Martin  looked  up  for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  answer 
angrily ;  then  he  controlled  himself  and  said,  laughing :  "  I  sup- 
pose I  have  my  prejudices  like  every  one  else.  I  daresay  Thurs- 
ton's a  very  good  sort  of  fellow,  but  we  don't  like  one  another, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  Everybody  can't  like  everybody,  Amy — 
why,  even  you  don't  like  every  one." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  answered  shortly. 

She  looked  for  an  instant  at  her  mother.  Martin  caught  the 
glance  that  passed  between  them,  and  suddenly  the  discomfort  of 
which  he  had  been  aware  as  he  stood,  half  an  hour  before,  in  the 
street,  returned  to  him  with  redoubled  force.  What  was  the  matter 
with  everybody?     What  had  he  done? 

"  Well,  I'll  go  and  change,"  he  said. 

"  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 

"  I'll  be  in  time  all  right,"  he  said. 

At  the  door  he  almost  ran  into  Mr.  Thurston.  This  gentleman 
had  been  described,  on  some  earlier  occasion,  by  an  unfriendly 
observer  as  "the  Suburban  Savonarola."  He  was  tall  and  ex- 
tremely thin  with  a  bony  pointed  face  that  was  in  some  lights 
grey  and  in  others  white.  He  had  the  excited  staring  eyes  of  a 
fanatic,  and  his  hair,  now  very  scanty,  was  plastered  over  his 
head  in  black  shining  streaks.  He  wore  a  rather  faded  black  suit, 
a  white  low  collar  and  a  white  bow  tie.  He  had  a  habit,  at  mo- 
ments of  stress,  of  cracking  his  fingers.  He  had  a  very  pronounced 
cockney  accent  when  he  was  excited,  at  other  times  he  struggled 
against  this  with  some  success. 

He  passed  from  brooding  silences  into  sudden  bursts  of  dec- 
lamation with  such  abruptness  that  strangers  thought  him  very 
eloquent.  When  he  was  excited  the  colour  ran  into  his  nose  as 
though  he  had  been  drinking,  and  often  his  ears  were  red.     His 


THE  WAKLOCKS  89 

history  was  simple.  The  son  of  a  small  draper  in  Streatham,  he 
had  at  an  early  age  joined  himself  to  an  American  Revivalist 
called  Harper.  When  after  some  six  years  of  successful  enterprise 
Mr.  Harper  had  been  imprisoned  for  forgery,  young  William 
Thurston  had  attached  himself  to  a  Christian  Science  Chapel  in 
Hoxton.  Then,  somewhere  about  1897,  he  had  met  Miss  Avies  at  a 
Revivalist  Meeting  in  the  Albert  Hall  and,  fascinated  by  her 
ardent  spirit,  transferred  his  services  to  the  Kingscote  Brethren. 

He  had  now  risen  to  a  position  of  great  importance  in  the 
Chapel;  it  was  known  that  he  disagreed  profoundly  with  his 
leader  on  some  vital  questions,  and  it  was  thought  that  he  might 
at  a  later  date  definitely  secede  and  conduct  a  party  of  his  own. 

Certainly  he  had  exceptional  energies  and  gifts  of  exhortation 
and  invective  not  to  be  despised.  Martin  politely  wished  him 
"  Good  evening "  and  escaped  to  his  room. 

As  he  changed  his  clothes  he  tried  to  translate  into  definite  facts 
his  vague  discomfort.  One,  he  hated  that  swine  Thurston.  Two, 
Amy  was  vexed  with  him  (What  strange  impossible  creatures 
women  were!).  Third — and  by  far  the  most  important  of  them 
all — his  father  wanted  to  talk  to  him.  He  knew  very  well  that  this 
talk  had  been  preparing  for  him  ever  since  his  return  from  abroad. 
He  dreaded  it.    Oh !  he  dreaded  it  most  horribly ! 

He  loved  his  father  but  with  a  love  that  had  in  it  elements  of 
fear,  timidity,  every  possible  sort  of  awkwardness.  Moreover 
he  was  helpless.  Ever  since  that  first  day  when  as  a  tiny  child 
of  four  or  five  he  had  awakened  to  behold  that  figure,  enormous  in 
a  long  night-shirt,  summoning  God  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
with  a  candle  flickering  fantastic  shadows  on  to  the  wall  behind 
them,  Martin  had  been  weak  as  putty  in  his  father's  hands. 
Against  other  men  he  could  stand  up;  against  that  strange  com- 
pany of  fears,  affections,  superstitions,  shadowy  terrors,  dim  ex- 
pectations that  his  father  presented  to  him  he  could  do  nothing. 

Well — that  conversation  had  to  come  some  time.  He  must  show 
that  he  was  a  man  now,  moulded  by  the  world  with  his  own  beliefs, 
purposes,  resolves.  But  if  he  did  not  love  him,  how  much  easier 
it  would  be! 

When  he  went  downstairs  he  found  the  old  man  in  the  little 
pink  drawing-room — he  looked  tired  and  worn.  Martin  remem- 
bered with  alarm  the  things  that  he  had  heard  recently  about  his 
father's  heart.  He  glanced  up  and  the  older  man's  hand  fastened 
on  his  shoulder;  they  stood  there  side  by  side.  After  a  few  min- 
utes they  all  went  in  to  supper. 

Mr.  Thurston's  nose  was  flushed  with  the  success  of  the  mission 


90  THE  CAPTIVES 

i 

from  which  he  had  just  returned.  He  had  been  one  of  a  number 
whose  aim  it  had  been  during  the  preceding  week  to  bring  light 
and  happiness  into  the  lives  of  the  inhabitants  of  Putney.  They 
had  been  obviously  appreciated,  as  the  collection  for  the  week  had 
amounted  to  between  seventy  and  eighty  pounds.  A  proper  share 
of  this  fine  result  Mr.  Thurston  naturally  appropriated  to  his  own 
efforts.  His  long  tapering  fingers  were  not  so  clean  as  they  might 
have  been,  but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  waving  them  in  the 
air  and  pointing  them  at  imaginary  Putney  citizens  whom  he 
evoked  in  support  of  his  statements. 

"  We  'ad  a  reelly  thumpin'  meeting  on  Thursday — Town  Hall — 
One  for  the  women  in  the  small  'all  hand  one  for  the  men  in  the 
Main  Hall.  Almost  no  opposition  you  might  say,  and  when  it 
came  to  the  Hymn  singing  it  fairly  took  the  roof  off.  A  lot  of  'em 
stopped  afterwards — one  lad  of  eighteen  or  so  is  coming  over 
to  us  'ere.  Butcher's  apprentice.  Says  'e's  felt  the  Lord  pressing 
him  a  long  way  back  but  the  flesh  held  him.  Might  work  him  up 
into  a  very  useful  lad  with  the  Lord's  help.  Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Warlock,  I  will  try  a  bit  more  of  that  cold  beef  if  you  don't  mind. 
Pretty  place,  Putney.  Ever  been  there,  Mr.  Warlock?  Ah,  you 
should  go — " 

Amy  Warlock  listened  with  the  greatest  interest;  otherwise, 
it  must  be  confessed,  Mr.  Thurston's  audience  was  somewhat  in- 
attentive. Mr.  Warlock's  mind  was  obviously  elsewhere;  he  passed 
his  hand  through  his  beard,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  table-cloth. 
Mr.  Thurston,  noticing  this,  tried  another  topic. 

"What  'ave  you  heard,  Mrs.  Warlock,  about  the  new  Miss 
Cardinal?    I  'aven't  seen  her  yet  myself." 

Mrs.  Warlock,  who  had  just  given  herself  a  little  piece  of  beef, 
some  potato  and  some  spinach,  and  was  arranging  these  delicacies 
with  the  greatest  care  upon  her  plate,  just  smiled  without  raising 
her  eyes.    Amy  answered — 

"  I've  seen  her.  I  was  there  this  afternoon.  I  can't  say  that  I 
found  her  very  interesting.  Plain — ugly  in  fact.  She  never 
opened  her  mouth  all  the  afternoon.  Caroline  Smith  tells  me  that 
she  knows  nothing  at  all,  seen  nothing,  been  nowhere.  Bad- 
tempered  I  should  think." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Thurston  with  a  gratified  sigh,  "  is  it  so 
reelly?" 

Martin  looked  across  at  his  sister  indignantly.  "  Trust  one 
woman  about  another,"  he  said.  "  Just  because  she  doesn't  chatter 
like  a  magpie  you  concluded  she's  got  nothing  to  say.  It's  even 
conceivable  that  she  found  you  dull,  Amy." 


THE  WARLOCKS  91 

Amy  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  penetrating  glance  that  in 
some  undefined  way  increased  his  irritation.  "  It's  quite  possible," 
she  said  quietly.  "  But  I  don't  think  even  you,  Martin,  can  call 
her  handsome.  As  to  her  intelligence,  she  never  gave  me  a  chance 
of  judging." 

"  I've  been  there  several  times,"  said  Martin  hotly.  "  I  like  her 
immensely."  He  felt  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken  that  it  had  been 
a  foolish  thing  to  say.  He  saw  Mr.  Thurston  smile.  In  the  pause 
that  followed  he  felt  as  though  he  had  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand 
flung  a  stone  into  a  pool  of  chatter  and  scandal  whose  ripples 
might  spread  far  beyond  his  control.  At  that  moment  he  hated 
his  sister. 

u  I  didn't  know  you  knew  her  so  well,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  he  said,  "  I've  only  seen  her  three  times. 
But  she  ought  to  be  given  her  chance.  It  can't  be  much 
fun  for  her  coming  here  where  she  knows  no  one — after 
her  father  suddenly  dying.  I  believe  she  was  all  alone  with 
him." 

He  had  expected  his  father  to  defend  her.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  apparently  liked  her.  But  his  father  said  nothing.  There 
was  an  awkward  and  uncomfortable  pause.  After  supper  Mr. 
Thurston  rubbed  his  hands,  helped  Amy  Warlock  into  her  cloak, 
said  to  the  company  in  general: 

"  Good  night.  Should  be  a  very  full  meeting  to-night.  .  .  . 
Well,  well.  .  .  .  Thank  you  for  your  kindness,  Mrs.  Warlock, 
I'm  sure." 

The  door  was  closed,  Mrs.  Warlock  retired  into  her  bedroom ;  the 
house  was  left  to  Martin  and  his  father. 

Mr.  Warlock's  room  was  hideous.  It  opened,  somewhat  iron- 
ically, out  of  Mrs.  Warlock's  pink  drawing-room.  A  huge  and  ex- 
ceedingly ugly  American  roll-top  desk  took  up  much  of  the  room. 
There  were  bookshelves  into  which  books  had  been  piled.  Com- 
mentaries on  the  Bible,  volumes  of  sermons,  pamphlets,  tattered 
copies  of  old  religious  magazines.  A  bare  carpet  displayed  holes 
and  rents.  The  fireplace  was  grim  with  dirty  pieces  of  paper 
and  untidy  shavings.  In  the  midst  of  this  disorder  there  hung  over 
the  mantelpiece,  against  the  faded  grey  wall-paper,  a  fine  copy  of 
Raphael's  "  Transfiguration."  Mr.  Warlock  lighted  a  candle  and 
the  flame  flickered  with  changing  colours  upon  the  picture's  sur- 
face. It  had  been  given  to  John  Warlock  many  years  before  by 
an  old  lady  who  heard  him  preach  and  had  been,  for  a  week,  con- 
verted, but  on  his  demand  that  she  should  give  her  wealth  to  the 
poor  and  fling  aside  her  passion  for  Musical  Comedy,  left  him 


92  THE  CAPTIVES 

with  indignation.  The  picture  had  remained;  it  hung  there  now 
crooked  on  its  cord. 

John  Warlock  was  unconscious  of  the  dust  and  disorder  that 
surrounded  him.  His  own  passion  for  personal  cleanliness  sprang 
from  the  early  days  with  his  father,  to  whom  bodily  cleanliness 
had  been  part  of  a  fanatical  mysticism.  Partly  also  by  reason  of 
that  early  training,  sloth,  drunkenness,  immorality,  had  no  power 
over  him.  And  of  the  whole  actual  world  that  surrounded  him  he 
was  very  little  conscious  except  that  he  hated  towns  and  longed 
always  for  air  and  space. 

So  that  the  windows  were  open  one  room  was  to  him  as 
another. 

He  had  often,  during  his  work  with  the  members  of  his  com- 
munity, been  conscious  of  his  ignorance  of  the  impulses  and 
powers  that  went  up  to  make  the  ordinary  sensual  physical  life 
of  the  normal  man.  His  own  troubles,  trials,  failures  were  so 
utterly  of  another  kind  that  in  this  other  world  his  imagination 
refused  to  aid  him.  This  had  often  deeply  distressed  him  and 
made  him  timid  and  shy  in  his  dealings  with  men  and  women. 
It  was  this,  more  than  anything  else,  that  held  him  back  from  the 
ambition  to  proselytise.  How  could  he  go  forth  and  challenge 
men's  souls  when  he  could  not  understand  nor  feel  their  difficul- 
ties? More  and  more  as  his  years  advanced  had  he  retired  into 
himself,  into  his  own  mystical  world  of  communion  with  a  God 
who  drew  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  him.  He  humbled  himself 
before  men ;  he  did  not  believe  himself  better  than  they  because  he 
had  not  yielded  to  their  temptations ;  but  he  could  not  help  them ; 
his  tongue  was  tied ;  he  was  a  man  cut  off  from  his  fellows  and  he 
knew  it. 

He  had  never  felt  so  impatient  of  his  impotence  as  he  did  to- 
night. For  ten  years  he  had  been  waiting  for  this  interview  with 
his  son,  and  now  that  it  was  come  he  was  timid  and  afraid  as 
though  he  had  been  opposed  by  a  stranger.  He  had  always  known 
that  Martin  would  return.  It  had  been  his  one  worldly  ambition 
and  prayer  to  have  him  at  his  side  again.  When  he  had  thought 
and  dreamt  of  the  time  that  was  coming,  he  had  thought  that  it 
would  be  simple  enough  to  win  the  boy  back  to  the  old  allegiance 
and  faith  to  which  he  had  once  been  bound.  Meanwhile  the  boy 
had  grown  into  a  man ;  here  was  a  new  Martin  deep  in  experiences, 
desires,  ambitions  of  which  his  father  could  have  no  perception. 
Even  in  the  moment  that  he  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  losing 
his  son  he  was  aware  also  of  the  deep  almost  fanatical  resolve  to 
keep  him,  to  hold  him  at  all  costs.  * 


THE  WARLOCKS  93 

This  was  to  be  the  test  of  his  whole  earthly  life.  He  seemed,  as 
he  sat  there,  looking  across  at  his  boy,  to  challenge  God  Himself 
to  take  him  from  him.    It  was  as  though  he  said  : 

"  This  reward  at  least  I  have  a  right  to  ask.    I  demand  it.  ..." 

Martin,  on  his  side,  was  conscious  of  a  profound  discomfort.  He 
had,  increasingly  as  the  years  had  passed,  wished  to  take  life  easily 
and  pleasantly.  Suddenly  now  another  world  rose  up  before  him. 
Yes,  another  world.  He  was  not  fool  enough  to  dismiss  it  simply 
because  it  did  not  resemble  his  own.  Moreover  it  had  been  once 
his,  and  this  was  increasingly  borne  in  upon  him.  But  it  all 
seemed  to  him  now  incredibly  old,  childish  and  even  fantastic,  as 
though  here,  in  the  middle  of  London,  he  had  suddenly  stepped 
into  a  little  wood  with  a  witch,  a  cottage  and  a  boiling  cauldron. 
Such  things  could  not  frighten,  of  course — he  was  no  longer  a 
child — and  yet  because  he  had  once  been  frightened  some  im- 
pression of  alarm  and  dismay  hovered  over  him. 

During  all  his  normal  years  abroad  he  had  forgotten  the  power 
of  superstition,  of  dreams  and  omens;  he  knew  now,  as  he  faced 
his  father,  that  the  power  was  real  enough. 

They  talked  for  a  little  while  of  ordinary  things;  the  candle 
flame  jumped  and  fell,  the  shavings  rustled  strangely  in  the  fire- 
place, the  "  Transfiguration  "  swung  a  little  on  its  cord,  the  colour 
still  lingering  at  its  heart  as  the  rest  of  the  room  moved  rest- 
lessly under  the  ebb  and  flow  of  black  shadows.  Then  the  candle 
suddenly  blew  out. 

"  A  lamp  will  be  better,"  said  Mr.  Warlock. 

He  left  the  room  and  Martin  sat  there,  in  the  darkness,  haunted 
by  he  knew  not  what  anticipations.  The  light  was  brought,  they 
drew  closer  together,  sitting  in  the  little  glossy  pool,  the  room 
pitch  dark  around  them. 

"  Well,  Martin,"  at  last  Mr.  Warlock  said,  "  I  want  to  hear 
so  many  things.    Our  first  time  together  alone." 

"  There  isn't  very  much,"  Martin  tried  to  speak  naturally  and 
carelessly.  "  I  wrote  about  most  things  in  my  letters.  Pretty 
rotten  letters  I'm   afraid."     He  laughed. 

"And  now — what  do  you  intend  to  do  now?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — Look  around  for  a  bit." 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Then  Mr.  Warlock  began 
again.  "  When  I  ask  about  your  life,  my  boy,  I  don't  mean  where 
you've  lived,  how  you've  earned  your  living — I  do  know  all  that 
— you've  been  very  good  about  writing.  But  your  real  life,  what 
you've  been  thinking  about  things,  how  you  feel  about  every- 
thing.   ..." 


94  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Well,  father — I  don't  know.  One  hadn't  much  time  for  think- 
ing, you  know.  No  one  did  much  thinking  in  Rio.  When  I 
was  in  the  Bermudas  there  was  a  fellow    ..." 

"  Yes,  but  tell  me  about  yourself." 

Then,  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  broke  out: 

"  Father,  you'll  be  badly  disappointed  in  me.  I've  been  feeling 
it  coming  all  the  time.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  just  like  any  one 
else.  I  want  to  have  a  good  time.  One's  only  young  once.  I'm 
awfully  sorry.  I  want  to  please  you  in  any  way  I  can,  but — but — 
it's  all  gone — all  that  early  part.  It's  simply  one's  childhood  that's 
finished  with." 

"  And  it  can't  come  back  ?  "  his  father  said  quietly. 

"  Never ! "  Martin's  voice  was  almost  a  cry  as  though  he  were 
defying  something. 

"  We  are  very  weak  against  God's  will,"  his  father  said,  still 
quietly  as  though  it  were  not  he  that  was  speaking  but  some 
voice  in  the  shadow  behind  him.  u  You  are  not  your  own  master, 
Martin." 

"  I  am  my  own  master,"  Martin  answered  passionately.  "  I  have 
been  my  own  master  for  ten  years.  I've  not  done  anything  very  fine 
with  my  life,  I  know.  I'm  just  like  any  one  else — but  I've  found 
my  feet.  I  can  look  after  myself  against  anybody  and  I'm  inde- 
pendent— of  every  one  and  of  everything." 

His  father  drew  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  was  not  so  foolish  as  to  expect  that 
you  would  come  back  to  us  just  as  you  left  us.  I  know  that  you 
must  have  your  own  life — and  be  free — so  much  as  any  of  us  are 
free  at  all.  ..."  Then  after  a  little  pause.  "  What  are  your 
plans?     What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Well,"  answered  Martin,  hesitating,  "  I  haven't  exactly  settled, 
you  know.  I  might  take  a  small  share  in  some  business,  go  into 
the  City.  Then  at  other  times  I  feel  I  shouldn't  like  being  cooped 
up  in  a  town  after  the  life  I've  led.  Sometimes,  this  last  month, 
I've  felt  I  couldn't  breathe.  It's  as  though,  some  days,  all  the 
chimneys  were  going  to  tumble  in.  When  you're  out  on  a  field 
you  know  where  you  are,  don't  you  ?  So  I've  thought  it  would  be 
nice  to  have  a  little  farm  somewhere  in  the  South,  Devonshire  or 
Glebeshire.  .  .  .  And  then  I'd  marry  of  course,  a  girl  who'd 
like  that  kind  of  life  and  wouldn't  find  it  dull.  There'd  be  plenty 
of  work — a  healthy  life  for  children  right  away  from  these  towns. 
.  .  .  That's  my  sort  of  idea,  father,  but  of  course  one  doesn't 
know.    ..." 

Martin  trailed  off  into  inconsequent  words.    It  was  as  though 


THE  WARLOCKS  95 

his  father  were  waiting  for  him  to  commit  himself  and  would 
then  suddenly  leap  upon  him  with  "  There !  Now,  you've  be- 
trayed yourself.    I've  caught  you "  and  he  had  simply  nothing 

to  betray,  nothing  to  conceal. 

But  anything  was  better  than  these  pauses  during  which  the 
threats  and  anticipations  piled  up  and  up,  making  a  monstrous 
figure  out  of  exactly  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  not  enough  to  tell  himself  that  between  every  father  and 
son  there  were  restraints  and  hesitations,  a  division  cleft  by  the 
remembrance  of  the  time  when  one  had  commanded  and  the  other 
obeyed.  There  were  other  elements  here — for  one  the  element  of 
an  old  affection  that  had  once  been  at  the  very  root  of  the  boy's 
soul  and  was  now  in  the  strangest  way  creeping  back  to  him,  as 
an  old  familiar,  but  forgotten  form  might  creep  out  of  the  dark 
and  sit  at  his  feet  and  clasp  his  knees. 

"  Well,"  said  John  Warlock.  "  That's  very  pleasant.  You  must 
feel  very  grateful  to  your  aunt  Rachel,  Martin;  she's  given  you 
the  opportunity  of  doing  what  you  like  with  your  life.  She  spoke 
to  me  about  it  before  she  died." 

"  She  spoke  to  you  about  it  ? " 

"  Yes.  She  told  me  that  she  did  it  because  she  wanted  to  bring 
you  back  to  me.  She  knew  of  my  love  for  you.  We  often  talked 
of  you  together.  She  was  a  faithful  servant  of  God.  She  believed 
that  God  meant  to  bring  you,  through  her,  back  into  His  arms." 

"I  might  not  have  come,"  Martin  said  with  a  sudden  anger 
that  surprised  himself.  "  She  made  no  conditions.  I  might  have 
gone  on  with  my  life  there  abroad.  I  am  free  to  lead  my  own  life 
where  and  how  I  please." 

"  Quite  free."  His  father  answered  gently.  "  But  she  knew  that 
you  would  come.    Of  course  you  are  your  own  master,  Martin " 

"  No,  but  it  must  be  quite  clear,"  Martin  cried,  the  excitement 
rising  in  him  as  he  spoke.  He  leaned  forward  almost  touching 
his  father's  chair.  "  I'm  not  bound  to  any  one  by  this  money. 
It  was  awfully  jolly  of  Aunt  Rachel.  I'll  never  forget  her — but 
I'm  free.  I  haven't  got  to  say  that  I  believe  things  when  I  don't, 
or  that  I  think  things  that  she  thought  just  because  she  did 
...  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  father,  but  you  know  that  it 
must  have  seemed  to  me  pretty  odd  coming  back  after  all  these 
years  and  finding  you,  all  in  the  same  place,  doing  the  same 
things,  believing  in  the  same  things — just  like  years  ago.  I've 
seen  the  world  a  bit,  I  can  tell  you — Russia,  China,  Japan,  Amer- 
ica, North  and  South,  India.  You  believe  as  far  as  you  can  see. 
What  are  you  to  think  when,  in  every  country  that  you  come  to, 


96  THE  CAPTIVES 

you  see  people  believing  in  different  things?  They  can't  all  be 
right,  you  know." 

His  father  said  nothing. 

"  But  each  thinks  he's  right — and  each  hates  the  other.  Then, 
when  I  came  back  and  saw  a  fellow  like  that  man  Thurston  preach- 
ing and  laying  down  the  law,  well,  it  seemed  odd  enough  that  any 
one  could  be  taken  in  by  it.  I  hope  I  don't  hurt  you,  father  .  .  . 
only  that's  what  you  want,  isn't  it  ...  to  have  it  out  quite 
plainly?  ..." 

His  father,  still  very  gently  and  hesitating  as  though  he  found 
it  difficult  to  catch  the  words  that  he  wished  (his  voice  had  still 
the  remoteness  of  some  one  speaking,  who  was  far  from  them  both), 
said: 

"  You'll  think  it  odd,  Martin,  when  you  know  how  often  I 
have  to  preach  and  speak  in  public,  that  I  should  find  it  hard  to 
talk — but  I  never,  with  any  man  alone,  could  find  words  easily.  I 
know  so  little.  It  is  God's  punishment  for  some  selfish  nervous- 
ness and  shyness  in  me,  that  even  now  when  I  am  an  old  man 
I  cannot  speak  as  one  man  to  another.  There  was  once,  I  remem- 
ber, a  young  man  who  had  heard  me  preach  and  was  moved  by 
my  words  and  begged  to  see  me  in  private.  He  came  one  eve- 
ning ;  he  was  tempted  to  commit  a  terrible  sin.  He  depended  upon 
me  to  save  him  and  I  could  say  nothing.  I  struggled,  I  prayed, 
but  it  was  incredible  to  me  that  any  man  could  be  tempted  to  such 
a  thing.  I  spoke  only  conventional  words  that  meant  nothing. 
He  went  away  from  me,  and  his  lost  soul  is  now  upon  me  and  will 
always  be  .  .  .  but,  Martin,  what  I  would  say  beyond  everything 
is — do  not  let  us  separate.  Be  free  as  you  must  be  free,  as  you 
should  be  free — but  stay  with  me — remain  with  me.  I  am  an  old 
man;  I  have  longed  for  you  as  I  think  no  other  father  can  ever 
have  longed  for  his  son.  They  tell  me  that  I  cannot  live  many 
more  years.  God  chooses  His  time.  Be  with  me,  Martin,  for  a 
little  while  even  though  I  may  seem  old  to  you  and  foolish.  Per- 
haps things  will  come  back  to  you  that  you  have  long  forgotten. 
You  were  once  pledged  and  it  was  a  vow  that  is  not  easily  re- 
moved— but  it  is  enough  for  the  present  if  you  will  be  with  me 
a  little,  give  me  some  of  your  time — give  the  old  days  a  chance 
to  come  back."    He  laid  his  hand  upon  his  son's. 

The  sudden  touch  of  the  dry,  hot,  trembling  skin  filled  Martin's 
heart  with  the  strangest  confusion  of  affection,  embarrassment 
and  some  familiar  pathos.  In  just  that  way  ten  years  before  he 
had  felt  his  father's  hand  and  had  thought :  "  How  old  he's  getting ! 
.   .   .    How  I  shall  miss  him!    ...    I  hope  nothing  happens  to 


THE  WARLOCKS  97 

him ! "  In  the  very  balance  of  his  father's  sentences  and  the 
deliberate  choice  of  words  there  had  been  something  old-fashioned 
and  remote  from  all  the  life  and  scramble  of  Martin's  recent  years. 

Now  he  took  his  father's  hand  in  his  own  strong  grasp  and  said 
gruffly : 

"  That's  all  right,  father  .  .  .  I'm  not  going  while  you  want 
me.  .  .  .  You  and  I .  .  .  always  .  .  .  it's  just  the  same 
now." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  as  though  he  were  giving  some 
pledge  that  was  to  involve  him  in  far  more  than  he  could  see 
before  him.  Then,  with  a  happy  sense  that  the  sentimental  part 
of  the  conversation  was  over,  he  began  to  talk  about  all  kinds  of 
things.  He  let  himself  go  and  even,  after  a  while,  began  to 
feel  the  whole  thing  really  jolly  and  pleasant.  His  father  wanted 
waking  up.  He  had  been  here  so  long,  with  all  these  awful  frumps, 
brooding  over  one  idea,  never  getting  away  from  this  Religion. 

Martin  began  to  imagine  himself  very  cleverly  leading  his  father 
into  a  normal  natural  life,  taking  him  to  see  things,  making 
him  laugh;  it  would  do  his  health  a  world  of  good. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  old  man  said: 

"  And  what  do  you  remember,  Martin,  of  the  old  days  here,  the 
days  when  you  were  quite  small,  when  we  lived  in  Mason  Street?  " 

What  did  Martin  remember?  He  remembered  a  good  deal.  He 
was  surprised  when  he  began  to  think.  ..."  Did  he  remem- 
ber ..."  his  father  suggested  a  scene,  a  day — yes,  he  remem- 
bered that.  His  father  continued,  as  though  it  had  been  for  his 
own  pleasure. 

The  scenes,  the  hours  returned  with  a  vividness  and  actuality 
that  thronged  the  room. 

He  could  see  Mason  Street  with  its  grocer's  shop  at  the  corner, 
its  Baths  and  Public  Library,  the  sudden  little  black  dips  into  the 
areas  as  the  houses  followed  one  another,  the  lamp-post  opposite 
their  window  that  had  always  excited  him  because  it  leaned  in~ 
wards  a  little  as  though  it  would  presently  tumble.  He  remem- 
bered the  fat  short  cook  with  the  pink  cotton  dress  who  wheezed 
and  blew  so  when  she  had  to  climb  the  stairs.  He  remembered 
the  rooms  that  would  seem  bare  enough  to  him  now,  he  supposed* 
but  were  then  filled  with  exciting  possibilities — a  little  round  brown 
table,  his  mother's  work-box  with  mother-of-pearl  shells  upon  the 
cover,  a  stuffed  bird  with  bright  blue  feathers  under  a  glass 
case,  a  screen  with  coloured  pictures  of  battles  and  horses  and 
elephants  pasted  upon  it.  He  remembered  the  exact  sound  that 
the  tinkling  bell  made  when  it  summoned  them  to  meals,  he  re- 


98  THE  CAPTIVES 

membered  the  especial  smell  of  beef  and  carpet  that  was  the  din- 
ing-room, he  remembered  a  little  door  of  coloured  glass  on  the 
first  landing,  a  cupboard  that  had  in  it  sugar  and  apples,  a  room 
full  of  old  books  piled  high  all  about  the  floor  upon  the  dry  and 
dusty  boards  ...  a  thousand  other  things  came  crowding 
around  him. 

Then,  as  his  father's  voice  continued,  out  from  the  background 
there  came  his  own  figure,  a  small,  pale,  excited  boy  in  short 
trousers. 

He  was  immensely  excited — that  was  the  principal  thing.  It 
was  evening,  the  house  seemed  to  swim  in  candlelight  and  smoke 
through  which  things  could  be  seen  only  dimly. 

Something  wonderful  was  about  to  happen  to  him.  He  was  in 
a  state  of  glory,  very  close  to  God,  so  close  that  he  could  almost 
see  Him  sitting  with  His  long  white  beard  in  the  middle  of  a 
cloud,  watching  Martin  with  interest  and  affection.  He  was 
pleased  with  Martin  and  Martin  was  pleased  with  himself.  At 
the  same  time  as  his  pleasure  he  was  aware  that  the  stuff  of  hi9 
new  black  trousers  tickled  his  knees  and  that  he  was  hungry. 

He  saw  his  small  sister  Amy  for  a  moment  and  expressed  quite 
effectively  by  a  smile  and  nod  of  the  head  his  immeasurable 
superiority  to  her.    .   .    . 

They,  he  and  his  father,  drove  in  a  cab  to  the  Chapel.  Of  what 
followed  then  he  was  now  less  aware.  He  remembered  that  he 
was  in  a  small  room  with  two  men,  that  they  all  took  off  their 
clothes  (he  remembered  that  one  man,  very  stout  and  red,  looked 
funny  without  his  clothes),  that  they  put  on  long  white  night- 
shirts, that  his  was  too  long  for  him  and  that  he  tripped  over  it, 
that  they  all  three  walked  down  the  centre  of  the  Chapel,  which 
was  filled  with  eyes,  mouths  and  boots,  and  that  he  was  very 
conscious  of  his  toe-nails,  which  had  never  been  exposed  in  public 
before,  that  they  came  to  a  round  stone  place  filled  with  water  and 
into  this  after  the  two  men  he  was  dipped,  that  he  didn't  scream 
from  the  coldness  of  the  water  although  he  wanted  to,  that  he 
was  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  finally  carried  home  in  an  ecstasy 
of  triumph. 

What  happiness  followed!  The  vitality  of  it  swept  down  upon 
him  now,  so  that  he  seemed  never  to  have  lived  since  then.  He 
was  the  chosen  of  God  and  every  one  knew  it.  What  a  little 
prig  and  yet  how  simple  it  had  all  been,  without  any  consciousness 
of  insincerity  or  acting  on  his  part.  God  had  chosen  him  and 
there  he  was,  for  ever  and  ever  safe  and  happy. 

It  was  not  only  that  he  was  assured  that  when  the  moment 


THE  WARLOCKS  99 

arrived  he  would  have,  in  Heaven,  a  "  good  time " — it  was  that 
he  was  greatly  exalted,  so  that  he  gave  his  twopence  a  week  pocket- 
money  to  his  school-fellows,  never  pulled  Amy's  hair,  never  teased 
his  mother's  canary.  He  had  been  aware,  young  though  he  was,  of 
another  life.  He  prayed  and  prayed,  he  went  to  an  endless  suc- 
cession of  services  and  meetings.  There  was  Mr.  Bates,  one  of 
the  leading  brethren  then,  who  loved  him  and  spoilt  him  .  .  . 
above  all,  through  and  beyond  it  all,  there  was  his  father,  who 
adored  him  and  whom  he  adored. 

That  adoration — of  God,  of  his  father,  of  life  itself!  Was  it 
possible  that  a  small  boy,  normal  and  ordinary  enough  in  other 
ways,  could  feel  so  intensely  such  passions? 

The  dark  room  was  crowding  him  with  figures  and  scenes.  A 
whole  world  that  he  had  thought  dead  and  withered  was  beating 
urgently,  insistently,  upon  his  consciousness. 

In  another  instant  he  did  not  know  what  surrender,  what 
acknowledgement  he  might  have  made.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
nothing  in  life  was  worth  while  save  to  receive  again,  in  some 
fashion,  that  vitality  that  he  had  once  known. 

The  door  was  flung  open;  a  stream  of  light  struck  the  dark; 
the  shadows,  memories,  fled,  helter-skelter,  like  crackling  smoke 
into  the  air. 

Amy  stood  in  the  doorway,  blinking  at  him,  scowling.  He 
knew,  for  some  undefined  reason,  that  he  could  not  meet  his  father's 
eyes.    He  jumped  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 


CHAPTER  H 

EXPECTATION 

MAGGIE  developed  marvellously  during  her  first  weeks  in 
London.  It  could  not  truthfully  be  said  that  her  aunts 
gave  her  great  opportunity  for  development;  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned  she  might  as  well  have  been  back  in  the  green  seclusion 
of  St.  Dreots. 

It  is  true  that  she  accompanied  her  Aunt  Elizabeth  upon  several 
shopping  expeditions,  and  on  one  hazardous  afternoon  they  pene- 
trated the  tangled  undergrowth  of  Harrods'  Stores;  on  all  these 
occasions  Maggie  was  too  deeply  occupied  with  the  personal  safety 
and  happiness  of  her  aunt  to  have  leisure  for  many  observations. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  always  started  upon  her  shopping  expeditions 
with  the  conviction  that  something  terrible  was  about  to  happen, 
and  the  expectation  of  this  overwhelming  catastrophe  paralysed 
her  nerves.  Maggie  wondered  how  it  could  have  been  with  her 
when  she  had  ventured  forth  alone.  She  would  stand  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  hesitating  as  to  the  right  omnibus  for  her  to  take, 
she  was  often  uncertain  of  the  direction  in  which  she  should  go. 
She  would  wave  her  umbrella  at  an  omnibus,  and  then  when  it 
began  to  slacken  in  answer  to  her  appeal,  would  discover  that  it 
was  not  the  one  that  she  needed,  and  would  wave  her  umbrella 
furiously  once  more.  Then  when  at  last  she  had  mounted  the 
vehicle  she  would  flood  the  conductor  with  a  stream  of  little 
questions,  darting  her  eyes  angrily  at  all  her  neighbours  as  though 
they  were  gathered  there  together  to  murder  her  at  the  earliest 
opportunity.  She  would  be  desperately  confused  when  asked  to  pay 
for  her  ticket,  would  be  unable  to  find  her  purse,  and  then  when 
she  discovered  it  would  scatter  its  contents  upon  the  ground.  In 
such  an  agony  would  she  be  at  the  threatened  passing  of  her 
destination  that  she  would  spring  up  at  every  pause  of  the  omni- 
bus, striking  her  nearest  neighbour's  eye  or  nose  with  her  um- 
brella, apologising  nervously,  and  then,  because  she  thought  she 
had  been  too  forward  with  a  stranger,  staring  fiercely  about  her 
and  daring  any  one  to  speak  to  her.  Upon  the  day  that  she  visited 
Harrods'  she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  lift  because 
she  always  wished  to  be  somewhere  where  she  was  not,  and  because 
it  always  went  up  when  she  wished  it  to  go  down  and  down  when 

100 


EXPECTATION  101 

she  wished  it  to  go  up.  Maggie,  upon  this  eventful  occasion,  did 
her  best,  but  she  also  was  bewildered,  and  wondered  how  any  of 
the  attendants  found  their  way  home  at  night.  Before  the  end 
of  the  afternoon  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  not  far  from  tears.  "  It 
isn't  cutlery  we  want.  I  told  the  man  that  it  was  saucepans.  They 
pay  us  no  attention  at  all.  You  aren't  any  help  to  me,  Maggie." 
They  arrived  in  a  room  filled  with  performing  gramophones.  This 
was  the  final  blow.  Aunt  Elizabeth,  trembling  all  over,  refused 
either  to  advance  or  retreat.  "  Will  you  please,"  said  Maggie  very 
firmly  to  a  beautifully  clothed  young  man  with  hair  like  a  looking- 
glass,  u  show  us  the  way  to  the  street  ? "  He  very  kindly  showed 
them,  and  it  was  not  until  they  were  in  the  homeward  omnibus  that 
Aunt  Elizabeth  discovered  that  she  had  bought  nothing  at  all. 

Nevertheless,  although  Maggie  collected  but  little  interesting 
detail  from  these  occasions,  she  did  gather  a  fine  general  impres- 
sion of  whirling  movement  and  adventure.  One  day  she  would 
plunge  into  it — meanwhile  it  was  better  that  she  should  move 
slowly  and  assemble  gradual  impressions.  The  solid  caution  that 
was  mingled  in  her  nature  with  passionate  feeling  and  enthusiasm 
taught  her  admirable  wisdom.  Aunt  Anne,  it  seemed,  never  moved 
beyond  the  small  radius  of  her  home  and  the  Chapel.  She  at- 
tended continually  Bible-meetings,  prayer-meetings,  Chapel  ser- 
vices. She  had  one  or  two  intimate  friends,  a  simple  and  devout 
old  maid  called  Miss  Pyncheon,  Mr.  Magnus,  whom  Maggie  had 
seen  on  the  day  of  her  arrival,  Mr.  Thurston,  to  whom  Maggie  had 
taken  an  instant  dislike,  and  Amy  Warlock.  She  visited  these 
people  and  they  visited  her;  for  the  rest  she  seemed  to  take  no 
exercise,  and  her  declared  love  for  the  country  did  not  lead  her 
into  the  Parks.  She  was  more  silent,  if  possible,  than  she  had 
been  at  St.  Dreots,  and  read  to  herself  a  great  deal  in  the  dark 
and  melancholy  drawing-room.  Although  she  talked  very  little  to 
Maggie,  the  girl  fancied  that  her  eye  was  always  upon  her.  There 
was  a  strange  attitude  of  watchfulness  in  her  silent  withdrawal 
from  her  scene  as  though  she  had  retired  simply  because  she  could 
see  the  better  from  a  distance. 

She  liked  Maggie  to  read  the  Bible  to  her,  and  for  an  hour  of 
every  evening  Maggie  did  this.  For  some  reason  the  girl  greatly 
disliked  this  hour  and  dreaded  its  approach.  It  was  perhaps  be- 
cause it  seemed  to  bring  before  her  the  figure  of  her  father,  the 
words  as  they  fell  from  her  lips  seemed  to  be  repeated  by  him  as 
he  stood  behind  her.  Nothing  was  more  unexpected  by  her  than 
the  way  that  those  last  days  at  St.  Dreots  crowded  about  her.  They 
should  surely  have  been  killed  by  the  colours  and  interests  of  this 


102  THE  CAPTIVES 

new  life.  It  appeared  that  they  were  only  accentuated  by  them. 
Especially  did  she  see  that  night  when  she  had  watched  beside  her 
father's  dead  body  .  .  .  she  saw  the  stirring  of  the  beard,  the 
shape  of  the  feet  beneath  the  sheet,  the  nicker  of  the  candle. 

Apart  from  this  one  hour  of  the  day,  however,  she  was  happy, 
excited,  expectant.  What  it  was  that  she  expected  she  did  not 
exactly  know,  but  there  were  so  many  things  that  life  might  now 
|  do  for  her.  One  thing  that  very  evidently  it  did  not  intend  to 
:  do  for  her  was  to  make  her  tidy,  careful,  and  a  good  manager.  Old 
Martha,  the  Cardinal  servant,  was  her  sworn  enemy,  and,  indeed, 
with  reason.  It  seemed  that  Maggie  could  not  remember  the 
things  that  she  was  told:  lighted  lamps  were  left  long  after  they 
should  have  been  extinguished,  one  night  the  bathroom  was 
drowned  in  water  by  a  running  tap,  her  clothes  were  not  mended, 
she  was  never  punctual  at  meal-times.  And  yet  no  one  could  call 
her  a  dreamy  child.  She  could,  about  things  that  interested  her, 
be  remarkably  sharp  and  penetrating.  She  had  a  swift  and  often 
successful  intuition  about  characters;  facts  and  details  about 
places  or  people  she  never  forgot.  She  had  a  hard,  severe,  entirely 
masculine  sense  of  independence,  an  ironic  contempt  for  sentimen- 
tality, a  warm,  ardent  loyalty  and  simplicity  in  friendship.  Her 
carelessness  in  all  the  details  of  life  sprang  from  her  long  muddled 
years  at  St.  Dreots,  the  lack  of  a  mother's  guidance  and  education, 
the  careless  selfishness  of  her  father's  disregard  of  her. 

She  struggled,  poor  child,  passionately  to  improve  herself.  She 
sat  for  hours  in  her  room  working  at  her  clothes,  trying  to  mend 
her  stockings,  the  holes  in  her  blouses,  the  rip  of  the  braid  at 
the  bottom  of  her  skirt.  She  waited  listening  for  the  cuckoo  to 
call  that  she  might  be  in  exact  time  for  luncheon  or  dinner,  and 
then,  as  she  listened,  some  thought  would  occur  to  her,  and,  al- 
though she  did  not  dream,  her  definite  tracking  of  her  idea  would 
lead  her  to  forget  all  time.  Soon  there  would  be  Martha's  knock 
on  the  door  and  her  surly  ill-tempered  voice: 

"  Quarter  of  an  hour  they've  been  sitting  at  luncheon,  Miss." 

And  her  clothes!  The  aunts  had  said  that  she  must  buy  what 
was  necessary,  and  she  had  gone  with  Aunt  Elizabeth  to  choose 
all  the  right  things.  They  had,  between  them,  bought  all  the 
wrong  ones.  Maggie  had  no  idea  of  whether  or  no  something 
suited  her;  a  dress,  a  hat  that  would  look  charming  upon  any 
one  else  looked  terrible  upon  her;  she  did  not  know  what  was  the 
matter,  but  nothing  became  her! 

Her  new  friend,  Caroline  Smith,  laughing  and  chattering,  tried 
to  help  her.     Caroline  had  very  definite  ideas  about  dress,  and 


EXPECTATION  103 

indeed  spent  the  majority  of  her  waking  hours  in  contemplation 
of  that  subject.  But  she  had  never,  she  declared,  been,  in  all  her 
life,  so  puzzled.    She  was  perfectly  frank. 

"  But  it  looks  awful,  Maggie  dear,  and  yesterday  in  the  shop  it 
didn't  seem  so  bad,  although  that  old  pig  wouldn't  let  us  have  it 
the  way  we  wanted.  It's  just  as  it  is  with  poor  mother,  who  gets 
fatter  and  fatter,  diet  herself  as  she  may,  so  that  she  can  wear 
nothing  at  all  now  that  looks  right,  and  is  only  really  comfortable 
in  her  night-dress.  Of  course  you're  not  fat,  Maggie  darling,  but 
it's  your  figure — everything's  either  too  long  or  too  short  for  you. 

rYou  don't  mind  my  speaking  so  frankly,  do  you?  I  always  say 
one's  either  a  friend  or  not,  and  if  one's  a  friend  why  then  be  as 
rude  as  you  please.  What's  friendship  for  ? " 
They  were,  in  fact,  the  greatest  possible  friends.  Maggie  had 
never  possessed  a  girl-friend  before.  She  had,  in  the  first  days  of 
the  acquaintance,  been  shy  and  very  silent — she  had  been  afraid 
of  going  too  far.  But  soon  she  had  seen  that  she  could  not  go  too 
far  and  could  not  say  too  much.  She  had  discovered  then  a  multi- 
tude of  new  happinesses. 

There  was  nothing,  she  found,  too  small,  too  unimportant  to 
claim  Caroline's  interest.  Caroline  wished  to  know  everything, 
and  soon  Maggie  disclosed  to  her  many  things  that  she  had  told 
to  no  other  human  being  in  her  life  before.  It  could  not  honestly 
be  said  that  Caroline  had  many  wise  comments  to  make  on  Mag- 
gie's experiences.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  surprised  excitement. 
She  was  amazed  by  the  most  ordinary  incidents  and  conversations. 
She  found  Maggie's  life  quite  incredible. 

"  You  must  stop  me,  Maggie,  if  I  hurt  your  feelings.  But 
really!  .  .  .  Why,  if  poor  father  had  treated  me  like  that  I'd 
have  gone  straight  out  of  the  house  and  never  come  back.  I 
would  indeed.  .  .  .  Well,  here  you  are  now,  dear,  and  we  must 
just  see  each  other  as  often  as  ever  we  can!" 

They  made  a  strange  contrast,  Maggie  so  plain  in  her  black 
dress  with  her  hair  that  always  looked  as  though  it  had  been  cut 
short  like  a  boy's,  her  strong  rough  movements,  and  Caroline, 
so  neat  and  shining  and  entirely  feminine  that  her  only  business 
in  the  world  seemed  to  be  to  fascinate,  beguile  and  bewilder  the 
opposite  sex.  Whatever  the  aunts  may  have  thought  of  this  new 
friendship,  they  said  nothing.  Caroline  had  her  way  with  them 
as  with  every  one  else.  Maggie  wondered  often  as  to  Aunt  Anne's 
real  thoughts.  But  Aunt  Anne  only  smiled  her  dim  cold  smile, 
gave  her  cold  hand  into  the  girl's  warm  one  and  said,  "  Good  after- 
noon, Caroline.    I  hope  your  father  and  mother  are  well." 


104  THE  CAPTIVES 

"They're  clears,  you  know,"  Caroline  said  to  Maggie;  "I  do  ad- 
mire your  Aunt  Anne;  she  keeps  to  herself  so.  I  wish  I  could 
keep  to  myself,  but  I  never  was  able  to.  Poor  mother  used  to 
say  when  I  was  quite  little,  '  You'll  only  make  yourself  cheap, 
Carrie,  if  you  go  on  like  that.  Don't  make  yourself  cheap,  dear.' 
But  what  I  say  is,  one's  only  young  once  and  the  people  who  don't 
want  one  needn't  have  one." 

Nevertheless  there  were,  even  in  these  very  early  days,  direc- 
tions into  which  Maggie  did  not  follow  her  new  friend.  Young 
as  she  was  in  many  things,  in  some  ways  she  was  very  old  indeed. 
She  had  been  trained  in  another  school  from  Caroline;  she  felt 
from  the  very  first  that  upon  certain  questions  her  lovely  friend 
was  inexperienced,  foolish  and  dangerously  reckless.  On  the  ques- 
tion of  "  men,"  for  instance,  Maggie,  with  clear  knowledge  of  her 
father  and  her  uncle,  refused  to  follow  Caroline's  light  and  easy 
excursions.  Caroline  was  disappointed;  she  had  a  great  deal  to 
say  on  the  subject  and  could  speak,  she  assured  Maggie,  from  a 
vast  variety  of  experience :  "  Men  are  all  the  same.  What  I  say  is, 
show  them  you  don't  care  '  that '  about  them  and  they'll  come 
after  you.  Not  that  I  care  whether  they  do  or  no.  Only  it's  fun 
the  way  they  go  on.    You  just  try,  Maggie." 

But  Maggie  had  her  own  thoughts.  They  were  not  imparted  to 
her  friend.  Nothing  indeed  appeared  to  her  more  odd  than  that 
Caroline  should  be  so  wise  in  some  things  and  so  foolish  in  others. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  was  her  own  strange  upbringing  that  gave 
her  independent  estimates  and  judgments. 

The  second  influence  that,  during  these  first  weeks,  developed 
her  soul  and  body  was,  strangely  enough,  her  aunt's  elderly  friend, 
Mr.  Magnus.  If  Caroline  introduced  her  to  affairs  of  the  world, 
Mr.  Magnus  introduced  her  to  affairs  of  the  brain  and  spirit. 

She  had  never  before  known  any  one  who  might  be  called 
"  clever."  Her  father  was  not,  Uncle  Mathew  was  not ;  no  one 
in  St.  Dreots  had  been  clever.  Mr.  Magnus,  of  course,  was 
"  clever  "  because  he  wrote  books,  two  a  year. 

But  to  be  an  author,  was  not  a  claim  to  Maggie's  admiration. 
As  has  been  said  before,  she  did  not  care  for  reading,  and  con- 
sidered that  the  writing  of  books  was  a  second-rate  affair.  The 
things  that  Mr.  Magnus  might  have  done  with  his  life  if  he  had 
not  spent  it  in  writing  books!  She  regarded  him  with  the  kind 
indulgence  of  an  elder  who  watches  a  child  brick-building.  He 
very  quickly  discovered  her  attitude  and  it  amused  him.  They  be- 
came the  most  excellent  friends  over  it.  She  on  her  side  very 
quickly  discovered  the  true  reason  of  his  coming  so  often  to  their 


EXPECTATION  105 

house;  he  loved  Aunt  Anne.  At  its  first  appearance  this  discovery 
was  so  strange  and  odd  that  Maggie  refused  to  indulge  it.  Love 
seemed  so  far  from  Aunt  Anne.  She  greeted  Mr.  Magnus  from 
the  chill  distance  whence  she  greeted  the  rest  of  the  world — she 
gave  him  no  more  than  she  gave  any  one  else — But  Mr.  Magnus 
did  not  seem  to  desire  more.  He  waited  patiently,  a  slightly  ironi- 
cal and  self -contemptuous  worshipper  at  a  shrine  that  very  seldom 
opened  its  doors,  and  never  admitted  him  to  its  altar.  It  was  this 
irony  that  Maggie  liked  in  him;  she  regarded  herself  in  the  same 
way.  Their  friendship  was  founded  on  a  mutual  detachment.  It 
prospered  exceedingly. 

Maggie  soon  discovered  that  Mr.  Magnus  was  very  happy  to 
sit  in  their  house  even  though  Aunt  Anne  was  not  present.  His 
attitude  seemed  to  be  that  the  atmosphere  that  she  left  behind  her 
was  enough  for  him  and  that  he  could  not,  in  justice,  except  any 
more.  Before  Maggie's  arrival  he  had  had  but  a  slender  excuse 
for  his  continual  presence.  He  could  not  sit  in  the  empty  draw- 
ing-room surveying  the  large  and  ominous  portrait  of  the  Cardinal 
childhood,  quite  alone  save  for  Thomas,  without  seeming  a  very 
considerable  kind  of  fool.  And  to  appear  that  in  the  eyes  of  Aunt 
Anne,  who  already  regarded  mankind  in  general  with  pity,  would 
be  a  mistake. 

Now  that  Maggie  was  here  he  might  come  so  often  as  he  pleased. 
Many  was  the  dark  afternoon  through  the  long  February  and 
March  months  that  they  sat  together  in  the  dim  drawing-room, 
Maggie  straining  her  eyes  over  an  attempted  reform  of  some 
garment,  Mr.  Magnus  talking  in  his  mild  ironical  voice  with  his 
large  moon-like  spectacles  fixed  upon  nothing  in  particular. 

Mr.  Magnus  did  all  the  talking.  Maggie  fancied  that,  all  his 
life,  he  had  persisted  in  the  same  gentle  humorous  fashion  without 
any  especial  attention  as  to  the  wisdom,  agreement  or  even  ex- 
istence of  his  audience.  She  fancied  that  all  men  who  wrote  books 
did  that.  They  had  to  talk  to  "  clear  their  ideas."  She  raised 
her  eyes  sometimes  and  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there.  His  shabby, 
hapless  appearance  always  appealed  to  her.  She  knew  that  he 
was,  in  reality,  anything  but  hapless,  but  his  clothes  never  fitted 
him,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  escape  from  the  Quixotic 
embarrassments  of  his  thin  hair,  his  high  cheek-bones,  his  large 
spectacles.  His  smile,  however,  gave  him  his  character;  when 
he  smiled — and  he  was  always  smiling — you  saw  a  man  inde- 
pendent, proud,  wise  and  gentle.  He  was  not  a  fool,  Mr.  Magnus, 
although  he  did  love  Aunt  Anne. 

To  a  great  deal  that  he  said  Maggie  paid  but  little  attention; 


106  THE  CAPTIVES 

it  was,  she  felt,  not  intended  for  her.  She  had,  in  all  her  relations 
with  him,  to  struggle  against  the  initial  disadvantage  that  she 
regarded  all  men  who  wrote  books  with  pity.  She  was  not  so 
stupid  as  not  to  realise  that  there  were  a  great  many  fine  books  in 
the  world  and  that  one  was  the  better  for  reading  them,  but,  just 
because  there  were,  already,  so  many  fine  ones,  why  write  more 
that  would  almost  certainly  be  not  so  fine?  He  tried  to  explain 
to  her  that  some  men  were  compelled  to  write  and  could  not  help 
themselves. 

"  I  wrote  my  first  book  when  I  was  nineteen.  One  morning  I 
just  began  to  write,  and  then  it  was  very  easy.  Then  everything 
else  was  easy.  The  first  publisher  to  whom  I  sent  it  accepted  it. 
It  was  published  and  had  quite  a  success.  I  thought  I  was  made 
for  life.  Anything  seemed  possible  to  one.  After  all,  so  far  as 
one's  possibilities  went  one  was  on  a  level  with  any  one — Shake- 
speare, Dante,  any  one  you  like.  One  might  do  anything.  .  .  . 
I  published  a  book  a  year,  after  that,  for  ten  years — ten  years  ten 
books,  and  then  awoke  to  the  fact  that  I  was  nothing  at  all  and 
would  never  be  anything — that  I  would  never  write  like  Shake- 
speare, and,  a  matter  of  equal  importance,  would  never  sell  like 
Mrs.  Henry  Wood.  Not  that  I  wished  to  write  like  any  one  else. 
I  had  a  great  idea  of  keeping  to  my  own  individuality,  but  I  saw 
quite  clearly  that  what  I  had  in  myself — all  of  it — was  no  real 
importance  to  any  one.  I  might  so  well  have  been  a  butcher  or 
baker  for  all  that  it  mattered.  I  saw  that  I  was  one  of  those 
unfortunate  people — there  are  many  of  them — just  in  between  the 
artists  and  the  shopkeepers.  I  was  an  artist  all  right,  but  not  a 
good  enough  one  to  count;  had  I  been  a  shopkeeper  I  might  have 
sold  my  goods. 

"  Well,  then,  here's  your  question,  Miss  Cardinal.  Why  on 
earth  did  I  go  on  writing?  .  .  .  Simply  because  I  couldn't  help 
myself.  Writing  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  gave  me 
thappiness.  I  thought  too  that  there  might  be  people,  here  and 
$here,  unknown  to  me  who  cared  for  what  I  did.  Not  many  of 
course — I  soon  discovered  that  outside  the  small  library  set  in 
London  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  me.  When  I  was  younger  I 
had  fancied  that  that  to  me  fiery  blazing  advertisement :  "  New 
Novel  by  William  Magnus,  author  of  .  .  ."  must  cause  men  to 
stop  in  the  street,  exclaim,  rush  home  to  tell  their  wives,  '■  Do  you 
know  Magnus'  new  novel  is  out  ? ' — now  I  realised  that  by  nine  out 
of  every  ten  men  and  five  out  of  every  ten  women  the  literary  page 
in  the  paper  is  turned  over  with  exactly  the  same  impatience  with 
which  I  turn  over  the  betting  columns.    Anyway,  why  not?    .    .   . 


EXPECTATION  107 

perfectly  right.  And  then  by  this  time  I'd  seen  my  old  books, 
often  enough,  lying  scattered  amongst  dusty  piles  in  second-hand 
shops  marked,  '  All  this  lot  6d.'  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  six- 
shilling  novels,  dirty,  degraded,  ashamed.  .  .  .  I'd  ask,  some- 
times, when  I  was  very  young,  for  my  own  works.  '  What's  the 
name?  What?  Magnus? — No,  don't  stock  him.  No  demand. 
We  could  get  you  a  copy,  sir.  .  .  .'  There  it  is.  Why  not  laugh 
at  it?  I  was  doing  perhaps  the  most  useless  thing  in  the  world. 
/  A  commonplace  little  water-colour,  hung  on  a  wall,  can  give  happi- 
/  ness  to  heaps  of  people;  a  poor  piece  of  music  can  do  a  thousand 
\  things,  good  and  bad,  but  an  unsuccessful  novel — twenty  unsuc- 
V  cessf ul  novels !  A  whole  row,  with  the  same  history  awaiting  their 
successors.  .  .  .  '  We  welcome  a  new  novel  by  Mr.  William 
Magnus,  who  our  readers  will  remember  wrote  that  clever  story. 

.  .  .  The  present  work  seems  to  us  at  least  the  equal  of  any 
that  have  preceded  it.'  ...  A  fortnight's  advertisement — Dead 
silence.  Some  one  in  the  Club,  '  I  see  you've  written  another  book, 
old  man.  You  do  turn  'em  out.'  A  letter  from  a  Press  Agency 
who  has  never  heard  of  one's  name  before,  '  A  little  sheaf  of  thin 
miserable  cuttings.'  .  .  .  The  Sixpenny  Lot.  .  .  .  Ouf  1  And 
still  I  go  on  and  shall  go  on  until  I  die.  Perhaps  after  all  I'm 
more  justified  than  any  of  them.  I'm  stripped  of  all  reasons  save 
the  pleasure,  the  thrill,  the  torment,  the  hopes,  the  despairs  of  the 
work  itself.  I've  got  nothing  else  out  of  it  and  shall  get  nothing 
.  .  .  and  therefore  I'm  justified.  Now  do  you  understand  a  little, 
Miss  Cardinal?" 

She  half  understood.  She  understood  that  he  was  compelled 
to  do  it  just  as  some  men  are  compelled  to  go  to  race  meetings  and 
just  as  Uncle  Mathew  was  compelled  to  drink. 

But  she  nevertheless  thought  it  a  dreadful  pity  that  he  was 
unable  to  stop  and  interest  himself  in  something  else.  Then 
he  could  see  it  so  plainly  and  yet  go  on !'  She  admired  and  at  the 
same  time  pitied  him. 

It  seemed,  this  private  history  of  Mr.  Magnus,  at  first  sight  so 

far  from  Maggie's  immediate  concerns,  her  new  life,  her  aunts,  the 

Chapel  and  the  Chapel  world.     It  was  only  afterwards,  when  she 

^  looked  back,  that  she  was  able  to  see  that  all  these  private  affairs  of 

private  people  radiated  inwards,  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  towards 

\    the  mysterious  inner  circle — that  inner  circle  of  which  she  was 

\.  already  dimly  aware,  and  of  which  she  was  soon  to  feel  the  heat 

and  light.    She  was,  meanwhile,  so  far  impressed  by  Mr.  Magnus' 

confidences  that  she  borrowed  one  of  his  novels  from  Caroline, 

who  confided  to  her  that  she  herself  thought  it  the  dullest  and 


108  THE  CAPTIVES 

most  tiresome  of  works.    "  To  be  honest,  I  only  read  a  bit  of  it — I 
don't  know  what  it's  about.    I  think  it's  downright  silly." 

This  book  bore  the  mysterious  title  of  "  Dredinger."  It  was 
concerned  apparently  with  the  experiences  of  a  young  man  who, 
buying  an  empty  house  in  Bloomsbury,  discovered  a  pool  of  water 
in  the  cellar.  The  young  man  was  called  Dredinger,  which  seemed 
to  Maggie  an  unnatural  kind  of  name.  He  had  an  irritating  habit 
of  never  finishing  his  sentences,  and  the  people  he  knew  answered 
him  in  the  same  inconclusive  fashion.  The  pool  in  the  cellar  na- 
turally annoyed  him,  but  he  did  nothing  very  practical  about  it, 
allowed  it  to  remain  there,  and  discussed  it  with  a  Professor  of 
Chemistry.  Beyond  this  Maggie  could  not  penetrate.  The  young 
man  was  apparently  in  love  with  a  lady  much  older  than  himself, 
who  wore  pince-nez,  but  it  was  an  arid  kind  of  love  in  which  the 
young  man  discovered  motives  and  symptoms  with  the  same  dex- 
terous surprise  with  which  he  discovered  newts  and  tadpoles  in  the 
cellar-pond.     Maggie  bravely  attacked  Mr.  Magnus. 

"  Why  didn't  he  have  men  in  to  clear  up  the  pond  and  lay  a 
new  floor  ? "  she  asked. 

"  That  was  just  the  point,"  said  Mr.  Magnus.    "  He  couldn't." 

"Why  couldn't  he?" 

"  Weakness  of  character  and  waiting  to  see  what  would  happen." 

"  He  talked  too  much,"  she  answered  decisively.  "  But  are 
there  houses  in  London  with  ponds  in  them  ? " 

"  Lots,"  said  Mr.  Magnus.  "  Only  the  owners  of  the  houses  don't 
know  it.  There  is  a  big  pond  in  the  Chapel.  That's  what  Thurs- 
ton came  out  of." 

This  was  beyond  Maggie  altogether.  An  agreeable  thing,  how- 
ever, about  Mr.  Magnus  was  that  he  did  not  mind  when  you  dis- 
liked his  work.  He  seemed  to  expect  that  you  would  not  like  it. 
He  was  certainly  a  very  unconceited  man. 

A  more  important  and  more  interesting  theme  was  Mr.  Magnus' 
reason  for  being  where  he  was.  What  was  he  doing  here?  What 
led  him  to  the  Chapel  doors,  he  being  in  no  way  a  religious  man? 

"  It  was  like  this,"  he  told  her.  "  I  was  living  in  Golders  Green, 
and  suddenly  one  morning  I  was  tired  of  the  country  that  wasn't 
country,  and  the  butcher  boy  and  the  postman.  So  I  moved  as  far 
into  the  centre  of  things  as  I  could  and  took  a  room  in  St.  Martin's 
Lane  close  at  hand  here.  Then  one  evening  I  was  wandering 
about,  a  desolate  Sunday  evening  when  the  town  is  given  over  to 
eats.  I  suddenly  came  across  the  Chapel.  I  like  going  into  London 
churches  by  chance,  there's  always  something  interesting,  some- 
thing you  wouldn't  expect.     The  Chapel  simply  astonished  me. 


EXPECTATION  109 

I  couldn't  imagine  what  they  were  all  about,  it  wasn't  the  ordinary 
London  congregation,  it  was  almost  the  ordinary  London  service 
and  yet  not  quite;  there  was  an  air  of  expectation  and  even 
excitement  which  is  most  unusual  in  a  London  church.  Then  there 
was  Warlock.  Of  course  one  could  see  at  once  that  he  was  an 
extraordinary  man,  a  kind  of  prophet  all  on  his  own;  he  was  as 
far  away  from  that  congregation  as  Columbus  was  from  his  crew 
when  he  first  sighted  the  Indies. 

"  I've  met  one  or  two  prophets  in  my  time,  and  their  concern 
has  always  been  with  their  audience  first,  themselves  second 
and  their  vision  last.  Warlock  is  the  other  way  round.  He  should 
have  been  a  hermit,  not  the  leader  of  a  community.  Well,  it  in- 
terested me.  I  came  again  and  again.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  stay 
on  now  until  the  end." 

"The  end?"  asked  Maggie. 

"The  end  of  myself  or  the  Chapel,  whichever  comes  first  I 
wrote  a  story  once — a  very  bad  one — about  some  merchants — 
why  merchants  I  don't  know — who  were  flung  on  a  desert  island- 
It  was  all  jungle  and  desolation,  and  then  suddenly  they  came 
upon  a  little  white  Temple.  It  doesn't  matter  what  happened 
afterwards.  I've  myself  forgotten  most  of  it,  but  I  remember  that 
the  sailors  used  the  Temple  in  different  ways  to  keep  their  hopes 
and  expectations  alive.  Their  expectations  that  one  day  a  ship  would 
come  and  save  them  .  .  .  and  so  far  as  I  remember  they  became 
imaginative  about  the  Temple,  and  fancied  that  the  Unknown 
God  of  it  would  help  them  to  regain  their  private  affairs:  one  of 
them  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  girl,  another  to  his  favourite  pub, 
another  to  his  money-making,  another  to  his  collection  of  minia- 
tures. And  they  used  to  sit  and  look  at  the  Temple  day  after 
day  and  expect  something  to  happen.  When  the  ship  came  at 
last  they  wouldn't  go  into  it  because  they  couldn't  bear  to  think 
that  something  should  happen  at  last  and  they  not  be  there  to 
see  it.  Oh  yes,  one  of  them  went  back,  I  remember.  But  his 
actual  meeting  with  his  girl  was  so  disappointing  in  comparison 
with  his  long  expectation  of  it  in  front  of  the  Temple  that  he 
took  the  next  boat  back  to  the  island  .  .  .  but  he  never  found 
it  again.  He  travelled  everywhere  and  died,  a  disappointed  man, 
at  sea." 

Mr.  Magnus  was  fond  of  telling  little  stories,  obscure  and  point- 
less, and  Maggie  supposed  that  it  was  a  literary  habit.  On  this 
occasion  he  continued  to  talk  quite  naturally  for  his  own  satisfac- 
tion. "  Yes,  one  can  make  oneself  believe  in  anything.  I  have 
believed  in  all  sorts  of  things.     In  England,  of  course,  people 


110  THE  CAPTIVES 

have  believed  in  nothing  excpt  that  things  will  always  be  as  they 
always  have  been — a  useful  belief  considering  that  things  have 
never  been  as  they  always  were.  In  the  old  days,  when  the  Boer 
War  hadn't  interfered  with  tradition,  it  must  have  seemed  to  any 
one  who  wasn't  a  young  man  pretty  hopeless,  but  now  I  don't  know. 
Imagination's  breaking  in  .  .  .  Warlock's  a  prophet.  I've  got 
fascinated,  sitting  round  this  Chapel,  as  badly  as  any  of  them. 
Yes,  one  can  be  led  into  belief  of  anything." 

"  And  what  do  you  believe  in,  Mr.  Magnus  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Well,  not  in  myself  anyway,  nor  Thurston,  nor  Miss  Avies. 
.  .  .  But  in  your  Aunt  perhaps,  and  Warlock.  The  only  thing 
I'm  sure  of  is  that  there's  something  there,  but  what  it  is  of 
course  I  can't  tell  you,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  know. 
The  story  of  Sir  Galahad,  Miss  Cardinal — it  seems  mid-Victorian 
to  us  now — but  it's  a  fine  story  and  true  enough." 

Maggie,  who  knew  nothing  of  mid-Victorianism,  was  silent. 

He  ended  with :  "  Mind  you  decide  for  yourself That's^  the 

great  thing  in  life.  Don't  you  believe  anything  that  any  one 
tells  you.  .  See  for  yourself.  And  if  there's  something  of  great 
value,  don't  think  the  less  of  it  because  the  people  who  admire  it 
aren't  worth  very  much.  Why  should  they  be  ?  And  possibly  after 
all  it's  only  themselves  they're  admiring.  .  .  .  There's  a  fear- 
ful lot  of  nonsense  and  humbug  in  this  thing,  but  there's  something 
real  too.    ..." 

He  changed  his  note,  suddenly  addressing  himself  intently 
to  her  as  though  he  had  a  message  to  deliver. 

"Don't  think  me  impertinent.  But  your  Aunt  Anne.  See  as 
much  of  her  as  you  can.  She's  devoted  to  you,  Miss  Cardinal. 
You  mayn't  have  seen  it — she's  a  reserved  woman  and  very  shy  of 
her  feelings,  but  she's  spoken  to  me.  ...  I  hope  I'm  not  inter- 
fering to  say  this,  but  perhaps  at  first  you  don't  understand  her. 
She  loves  you,  you're  the  first  human  being  I  do  believe  that  she's 
ever  loved." 

What  was  there  then  in  Maggie  that  started  up  in  rebellion  at 
this  unexpected  declaration  ?  She  had  been  sitting  there,  tranquil, 
soothed  with  a  happy  sense  that  her  new  life  was  developing 
securely  for  her  in  the  way  that  she  would  have  it.  Suddenly  she 
was  alert,  suspicious,  hostile. 

"  What  has  she  said  to  you  ? "  she  asked  quickly,  frowning  up 
at  him  and  drawing  back  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  him.  He 
was  startled  at  the  change  in  her. 

"  Said  ? "  he  repeated,  stammering  a  little,  "  Why  only.  .  .  . 
Nothing    .    .    .    except  that  she  cared  for  you  and  hoped  that  you 


EXPECTATION  111 

would  be  happy.    She  was  afraid  that  it  would  all  be  strange  for 
you  at  first.    .    .    .    Perhaps  I  have  been  interfering.    ..." 

"  No,"  Maggie  interrupted  quickly.  "  Not  you.  Only  I  must 
lead  my  own  life.  I  must,  mustn't  I?  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish, 
but  I  can  begin  for  myself  now.  I  have  a  little  money  of  my 
own — and  I  must  make  my  own  way.  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish," 
she  repeated,  "but  I  must  be  free.  I  don't  understand  Aunt 
Anne.  She  never  seems  to  care  for  me.  I  want  to  do  everything 
for  her  I  can,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  under  any  one  ever  any  more." 

She  was  so  young  when  she  said  this  that  he  was  suddenly 

moved  to  an  affectionate  fatherly  tenderness — but  he  knew  her 

now  too  well  to  show  it. 

r   "  No,  you  mustn't  be  selfish,"  he  answered  her  almost  drily. 

/  "  We  can't  lead  our  lives  quite  alone,  you  know — every  step  we 

/  take  we  affect  some  one  somewhere.    Your  aunt  doesn't  want  your 

liberty — she  wants  your  affection." 

"  She  wants  to  make  me  religious,"  Maggie  brought  out,  staring 
at  Mr.  Magnus. 

"  Ah,  if  you  see  that,  you  don't  understand  her,"  he  answered. 
"How  should  you — yet?  She  cares  so  deeply  for  her  religion 
that  she  wishes  naturally  any  one  whom  she  loves  to  share  it  with 
her.    But  if  you  don't " 

"  If  you  don't  ? "  cried  Maggie,  springing  up  from  her  seat  and 
facing  him. 

"  I'm  sure  she  would  wish  to  influence  no  one,"  he  continued 
gravely.  "  You've  seen  for  yourself  how  apart  her  life  is.  She  is 
too  conscious  of  the  necessity  for  her  own  liberty " 

"  It  isn't  liberty,  it's  slavery,"  Maggie  caught  him  up  passion- 
ately. "  Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  watched  all  these  weeks  ?  What 
does  her  religion  do  but  shut  her  off  from  everything  and  every- 
body? Is  she  kind  to  Aunt  Elizabeth?  No,  she  isn't,  and  you 
know  it.  Would  she  care  if  we  were  all  of  us  buried  in  the  ruins 
of  this  house  to-morrow  ?  Not  for  a  single  moment.  And  it's  her 
religion.  I  hate  religion.  I  hate  it !  ...  and  since  I've  been  in 
this  house  I've  hated  it  more  and  more.  You  don't  know  what  it 
was  like  with  father.  I  don't  think  of  it  now  or  talk  of  it,  but  I 
know  what  it  made  of  him.  And  now  it's  the  same  here,  only  it 
takes  them  in  a  different  way.  But  it's  the  same  in  the  end — no 
one  who's  religious  cares  for  any  one.  And  they'd  make  the  same 
of  me.  Aunt  Anne  would — the  same  as  she's  made  of  Aunt 
Elizabeth.  They  haven't  said  much  yet.  but  they're  waiting  for  the 
right  moment,  and  then  they'll  spring  it  upon  me.  It's  in  the  house, 
it's  in  the  rooms,  it's  in  the  very  furniture.    It's  as  though  father 


112  THE  CAPTIVES 

had  come  back  and  was  driving  me  into  it.  And  I  want  to  be  free, 
I  want  to  lead  my  own  life,  to  make  it  myself.  I  don't  want  to 
think  about  God  or  Heaven  or  Hell.  I  don't  care  whether  I'm  good 
or  bad.  .  .  .  What's  the  use  of  my  being  here  in  London  and 
never  seeing  anything.  I'll  go  into  a  shop  or  something  and  work 
my  fingers  to  the  bone.  They  shan't  catch  me.  They  shan't. 
...    If  Uncle  Mathew  were  here.    ..." 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  breathless,  staring  at  Mr.  Magnus  as 
though  she  had  not  been  aware  until  now  that  he  was  in  the 
room.  To  say  that  her  outburst  astonished  him  was  to  put  it 
very  mildly  indeed.  She  had  always  been  so  quiet  and  restrained; 
she  had  seemed  so  happy  and  tranquil. 

He  blushed,  pushed  his  spectacles  with  his  fingers,  then  finally 
stammered : 

"  I'd  no  idea — that — that  you  hated  it  so  much." 

She  was  quiet  and  composed  again.  "  I  don't  hate  it,"  she 
answered  very  calmly.  "  Only  they  shan't  tie  me — no  one  shall. 
And  in  the  house  it's  as  though  some  one  were  watching  behind 
every  door.  It  used  to  be  just  the  same  at  home.  When  people 
think  a  lot  about  religion  something  seems  to  get  into  a  place. 
Why,  truly,  Mr.  Magnus,  I've  wondered  once  or  twice  lately, 
in  spite  of  myself,  whether  they  mayn't  be  right  after  all  and 
God's  going  to  come  in  a  chariot  and  set  the  world  on  fire. 

"  It  sounds  silly,  but  when  you  see  the  way  Aunt  Anne  and 
Mr.  Warlock  believe  things  it  almost  makes  them  true." 

Maggie  finally  added :  u  You  mustn't  think  me  selfish.  I'm  very 
very  grateful  for  all  their  kindness.  I'm  very  happy.  It's  all 
splendid  compared  with  what  life  used  to  be  at  home — but  I  fancy 
sometimes  that  the  aunts  think  I'm  just  going  to  settle  down 
here  for  ever  and  be  like  them — and  I'm  not — I'm  afraid  of  Aunt 
Anne." 

"  Afraid  of  her  ? "  said  Mr.  Magnus.  "  Ah,  you  mustn't  be 
that." 

"  She  has  some  plan  in  her  head.    I  know  she  has " 

u  No  plan  is  set  except  for  your  good,"  said  Mr.  Magnus. 

"  I  don't  want  any  one  to  bother  about  my  good,"  answered  Mag- 
gie.   "  I  can  look  after  that  for  myself." 

This  little  conversation  revealed  Maggie  to  Mr.  Magnus  in 
an  entirely  new  light.  He  had  thought  her,  until  now,  a  good 
simple  girl,  entirely  ignorant  of  life  and  eager  to  be  taught.  The 
sudden  discovery  of  her  independence  distressed  him.  He  left  the 
house  that  afternoon  with  many  new  points  to  consider. 

Meanwhile  Maggie  had  kept  from   him  the  true  root  of  the 


EXPECTATION  113 

matter.  She  had  said  nothing  of  Martin  Warlock.  She  had  said 
nothing,  even  to  herself,  about  him,  and  yet  the  consciousness  of 
her  meeting  with  him  was  always  with  her  as  a  fire  smoulders 
in  the  hold  of  a  ship,  burning  stealthily  through  the  thick  heart 
of  the  place,  dim  and  concealed,  to  burst  suddenly,  with  a  touch 
of  the  wind,  into  shining  flame. 

It  was  after  her  talk  to  Mr.  Magnus  that  she  suddenly  saw 
that  Martin  Warlock  was  always  in  her  thoughts,  and  then,  be- 
cause she  was  Maggie  and  had  never  been  deceitful  to  herself  or 
to  any  one  else,  she  faced  the  fact  and  considered  it.  She  knew 
that  she  was  ignorant  of  the  world  and  of  life,  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  men  and,  although  she  had  many  times  fancied  to 
herself  what  love  must  be  like,  she  did  not  tell  herself  now  that 
it  was  love  that  had  come  to  her. 

She  saw  him  as  a  desirable  companion;  she  thought  that  he 
would  make  a  most  interesting  friend;  she  would  like  to  make  her 
experiences  of  life  with  him  at  her  side.  She  would  be  free 
and  he  would  be  free,  but  they  would  exchange  confidences. 

And  then  because  she  was  very  simple  and  had  learnt  nothing  of 
the  difference  between  the  things  that  decent  girls  might  do  and 
the  things  they  might  not  she  began  to  consider  the  easiest  way 
of  meeting  him.  She  intended  to  go  to  him  simply  as  one  human 
being  to  another  and  tell  him  that  she  liked  him  and  hoped  that 
they  would  often  see  one  another.  There  were  no  confused  issues 
nor  questions  of  propriety  before  Maggie.  Certainly  she  was  aware 
that  men  took  advantage  of  girls'  weakness — but  that  was,  as  in  the 
case  of  Uncle  Mathew,  when  they  had  drunk  too  much — and  it  was 
the  fault  of  the  girls,  too,  for  not  looking  after  themselves.  Maggie 
felt  that  she  could  look  after  herself  anywhere.  She  was  more 
afraid,  by  far,  of  her  Aunt  Anne  than  of  any  man. 

It  happened  on  the  very  day  after  that  conversation  with  Mr. 
Magnus  that  Aunt  Anne  said  at  luncheon: 

"  I  think,  Maggie  dear,  if  you  don't  mind,  that  you  and  I  will 
pay  a  call  on  Mrs^  Warlock  this  afternoon.  You  have  not  been 
there  yet.    To-day  will  be  a  very  good  opportunity." 

Maggie's  mind  flew  at  once  to  her  clothes.  She  had  been  with 
Caroline  Smith  to  that  young  lady's  dressmaker,  a  thin  and  sharp- 
faced  woman  whose  black  dress  gleamed  with  innumerable  pins. 
Maggie  had  been  pinched  and  measured,  pulled  in  here  and  pulled 
out  there.  Then  there  had  been  afternoons  when  she  had  been 
"  fitted  "  under  Caroline's  humorous  and  critical  eye.  Finally  the 
dress  had  been  delivered,  only  two  days  ago,  in  a  long  card-board 
box;  it  waited  now  for  the  great  occasion. 


114  THE  CAPTIVES 

The  great  occasion  had,  in  the  guise  of  the  Warlock  family, 
surely  arrived.  Maggie's  heart  beat  as  she  went  up  to  her  room. 
When  at  last  she  was  wearing  the  dress,  standing  before  her  mirror, 
her  cheeks  were  red  and  her  hands  shook  a  little. 

The  dress  was  very  fine — simple  of  course  and  quite  plain,  but 
elegant  as  no  dress  of  Maggie's  had  ever  been  elegant.  There 
surely  could  not  anywhere  be  a  more  perfect  black  dress,  and  yet, 
as  Maggie  gazed,  she  was  aware  that  there  was  something  not  quite 
right.  She  was  always  straightforward  with  herself;  yes,  the 
thing  that  was  not  quite  right  was  her  own  stupid  shape.  Her 
figure  was  too  square,  her  back  was  too  short,  her  hands  too  large. 
She  had  a  moment  of  acute  disgust  with  herself  so  that  she  could 
have  torn  the  dress  from  her  and  rushed  into  her  old  obscure  and 
dingy  black  again.  Of  what  use  to  dress  her  up?  She  would 
always  look  wrong,  always  be  awkward  and  ungainly  .  .  .  tears 
of  disappointment  gathered  slowly  in  her  eyes.  Then  her  pride 
reasserted  itself;  she  raised  her  head  proudly  and  laughed  at  her 
anxious  gaze.  There  was  still  her  new  hat.  She  took  it  from  the 
bed  and  put  it  on,  sticking  big  pins  into  it,  moving  back  from  the 
mirror,  then  forward  again,  turning  her  back,  standing  on  her 
toes,  suddenly  bowing  to  herself  and  waving  her  hand. 

She  was  caught  thus,  laughing  into  the  mirror,  by  old  Martha, 
who  pushed  her  sour  face  through  the  door  and  said :  "  They've 
been  waiting  this  long  time  for  you,  Miss." 

"  All  right,  Martha,"  Maggie  answered  sharply,  annoyed  that 
she  should  be  found,  posturing  and  bowing,  by  the  woman.  "  Why 
didn't  you  knock  ?  " 

"I  did  knock,  Miss.  You  were  that  occupied  you  didn't  hear 
me."     The  old  woman  was  grinning. 

Maggie  went  downstairs,  her  heart  still  beating,  her  cheeks  still 
flushed.  She  did  hope  that  Aunt  Anne  would  be  pleased.  Aunt 
Anne,  although  she  never  said  anything  about  clothes,  must,  of 
course,  notice  such  things,  and  if  she  loved  Maggie  as  Mr.  Magnus 
said  she  did,  then  she  would  show  her  approval.  The  girl  stood 
for  a  moment  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  staircase  looking  at  her 
aunt  who  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  little  dark  hall. 

"  Well,  dear — I'm  waiting,"  she  said. 

The  burning  eyes  of  Thomas  the  cat  watched  from  the  deep 
shadows. 

"  I'm  so  sorry.    I  was  dressing,"  said  Maggie. 

Her  aunt  said  nothing  more  and  they  left  the  house. 

Maggie,  as  always  when  she  walked  with  Aunt  Anne,  was  aware 
that  they  made  a  strange  couple,  she  so  short  and  the  other  so 


EXPECTATION  115 

tall,  she  with  her  sturdy  masculine  walk,  her  aunt  with  her 
awkward  halting  movement.    They  went  in  silence. 

Maggie  longed  for  a  word  of  approval;  a  short  sentence  such 
as  "  How  nice  you're  looking,  Maggie,"  or  "  I  like  your  dress, 
Maggie,"  or  "  That's  a  new  dress,  dear — I  like  it,"  would  be  enough. 
After  that  Maggie  felt  that  she  could  face  a  multitude  of  wild  and 
savage  Warlocks,  that  she  could  walk  into  the  Warlock  drawing- 
room  with  a  fine  brave  carriage,  above  all,  that  she  would  feel  a 
sudden  warm  affection  for  her  aunt  that  would  make  all  their 
future  life  together  easy. 

But  Aunt  Anne  said  nothing.  She  looked  exactly  as  she  had 
looked  upon  her  first  appearance  at  St.  Dreots,  so  thin  and  tall,. 
with  her  pale  tapering  face  and  her  eyes  staring  before  her  as- 
though  they  saw  nothing. 

Maggie,  as  they  turned  up  into  Garrick  Street,  said : 

"  I  hope  you  like  my  new  dress,  aunt." 

Aunt  Anne  turned  to  her  for  a  moment,  smiled  gently  and  then 
vaguely,  as  though  her  mind  were  elsewhere,  answered: 

"  I  liked  your  old  dress  better,  dear." 

Maggie's  face  flamed;  her  temper  flared  into  her  eyes.  For  a 
moment  she  had  wild  thoughts  of  breaking  into  open  rebellion. 
She  hated  her  dress,  she  hated  London,  above  all,  she  hated  Aunt 
Anne.  That  lady's  happy  unconsciousness  that  anything  had 
occurred  drove  the  girl  into  furious  irritation.  Well,  it  was  hope- 
less then,  Mr.  Magnus  could  say  what  he  pleased,  her  aunt  did  not 
care  for  her — she  would  not  mind  did  she  fall  dead  in  the  street 
before  her.  The  words  in  Maggie's  mind  were :  "  You  don't  look 
at  me.  I'm  not  a  human  being  to  you  at  all.  But  I  won't  live  with 
you.  I'll  go  my  own  way.  You  can't  keep  me  if  you  never  speak 
to  me  nor  think  of  me."  But  in  some  dark  fashion  that  strange 
impassivity  held  her.    Aunt  Anne  had  her  power.    .    .    . 

They  climbed  the  dim  crooked  staircase  behind  the  antiquary's 
wall.  They  rang  the  Warlock  bell  and  were  admitted.  Maggie  did 
not  know  what  it  was  that  she  had  expected,  but  it  was  certainly 
not  the  pink,  warm  room  of  Mrs.  Warlock. 

The  heavy  softly  closing  door  hemmed  them  in,  the  silent 
carpet  folded  about  their  steps;  the  canary  twittered,  the  fire 
spurted  and  crackled.  But  at  once  the  girl's  heart  went  out  to  old 
Mrs.  Warlock;  she  looked  so  charming  in  her  white  cap  and  blue 
bow,  her  eyes  were  raised  so  gently  to  Maggie's  face  and  her  little 
hand  was  so  soft  and  warm. 

The  meeting  between  Anne  Cardinal  and  Mrs.  Warlock  was 
very  gracious.     Aunt  Anne  gravely  pressed  the  old  lady's  hand, 


116  THE  CAPTIVES 

looked  at  her  with  her  grave  distant  eyes,  then  very  carefully  and 
delicately  sat  down. 

Amy  Warlock  came  in;  Maggie  had  met  her  before  and  dis- 
liked her.  Conversation  dealt  decently  and  carefully  with  the 
weather,  the  canary  and  Maggie's  discovery  of  London.  Maggie 
was  compelled  to  confess  that  she  was  afraid  that  she  had  not  dis- 
covered London  at  all.  She  felt  Amy  Warlock's  sharp  eyes  upon 
them  all  and,  as  always  when  she  was  in  company  that  was,  she 
thought,  suspicious  of  her,  she  became  hot  and  uncomfortable,  she 
frowned  and  spoke  in  short,  almost  hostile,  sentences. 

"  They're  laughing  at  my  new  clothes,"  she  thought,  "  I  wish  I'd 
worn  my  old  ones  .  .  .  and  anyway  these  hurt  me."  She  sat  up 
very  stiffly,  her  hands  on  her  lap,  her  eyes  staring  at  the  little 
bright  water-colour  on  the  wall  opposite.  Mrs.  Warlock,  like  a 
trickling,  dancing  brook,  continued  her  talk: 

"  Of  course  there's  the  country.  I  was  brought  up  as  a  girl 
just  outside  Salisbury.  ...  So  many,  many  years  ago — I  always 
tell  my  boy  that  I'm  such  an  old  woman  now  that  I  don't  belong 
to  his  world  at  all.  Just  to  sit  here  and  see  the  younger  generation 
go  past.  Don't  regret  your  youth,  Miss  Cardinal.  You'll  want  it 
back  again  one  day.    I  said  to  Martin  only  yesterday.    ..." 

Neither  Aunt  Anne  nor  Amy  Warlock  had  anything  to  say, 
so  that  quite  suddenly  on  the  entrance  of  tea,  conversation  dropped. 
They  all  sat  there  and  looked  at  one  another.  There  was  a  large 
silver  tray  with  silver  tea-things  upon  it  and  a  fat  swelling  china 
dish  that  held  hot  buttered  toast.  There  was  a  standing  wicker 
pyramid  containing  bread  and  butter,  plates  of  little  yellow  and 
red  cakes,  shortbread  and  very  heavy  plum  cake  black  with  cur- 
rants. 

Mrs.  Warlock  had  ceased  all  conversation,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  preparations  for  tea.  The  door  opened  and  John  Warlock 
and  his  son  came  in. 

Maggie's  eyes  lighted  when  she  saw  Martin  Warlock.  She 
behaved  as  she  might  have  done  had  she  been  in  her  own  room  at 
St.  Dreots.  She  sprang  up  from  her  chair  and  stood  there,  smil- 
ing, waiting  for  him.  First  his  father  shook  hands  with  her,  then 
Martin  came  and  stood  beside  her,  laughing. 

His  face  was  flushed  and  he  seemed  excited  about  something,  but 
she  felt  nothing  save  her  pleasure  at  meeting  him,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  had  moved  on  to  her  aunt  that  she  was  conscious  once  more 
of  Amy  Warlock's  eyes,  and  wondered  whether  she  had  behaved 
badly  in  jumping  up  to  meet  him. 

As  she  considered  this  her  anger  and  her  confusion  at  her  anger 


EXPECTATION  117 

increased.  She  saw  that  Martin  was  talking  to  her  aunt  and  did  not 
look  at  her.  Perhaps  he  also  had  thought  her  forward;  of  course 
that  horrid  sister  of  his  would  think  everything  that  she  did  wrong. 
But  did  he?  Surely  he  understood.  She  wanted  to  ask  him  and 
then  wanted  to  go  home  and  leave  them  all.  She  saw  that  her  tea- 
cup was  trembling  in  her  hand.  She  steadied  it  upon  her  knee 
and  then  her  knee  began  to  quiver,  and  all  the  time  Amy  Warlock 
watched  her.  She  thought  then  that  she  must  assert  herself  and 
show  that  she  was  not  confused  nor  timid,  so  she  began  in  a 
high-strained  voice  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Warlock.  She  told  Mrs.  War- 
lock that  she  found  Harrods'  a  confusing  place,  that  she  had  not 
yet  visited  Westminster  Abbey,  that  her  health  was  quite  good,  that 
she  had  no  brothers  and  no  sisters,  that  she  could  not  play  the 
piano,  and  that  she  was  afraid  that  she  never  read  books. 

It  was  after  the  last  of  these  interesting  statements  that  she 
was  suddenly  aware  of  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  as  though  it  had 
been  a  brazen  gong  beating  stridently  in  the  vastness  of  a  deserted 
Cathedral.  She  saw  the  old  lady  take  two  pieces  of  buttered  toast 
from  the  china  dish,  hold  them  tenderly  in  her  hand  and  fling  them 
a  swift,  bird-like  glance  before  she  devoured  them;  during  that 
moment's  vision  Maggie  discovered  what  so  many  people  of  vaster 
experience  both  of  life  and  of  Mrs.  Warlock  had  never  discovered; 
namely,  that  the  old  lady  cared  more  for  her  food  than  her  com- 
pany. Maggie  was  suddenly  less  afraid  of  the  whole  family.  She 
looked  up  then  at  Martin  as  though  she  thus  would  prove  her  new 
courage  and,  he  glancing  across  at  the  same  moment,  they  smiled. 
He  left  his  father's  side  and,  coming  over  to  her,  sat  down  close 
to  her.    He  dropped  his  voice  in  speaking  to  her. 

"  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  she  asked  him. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  as  though  he  wanted  to 
tell  her  something  privately.  "  I  feel  as  though  we'd  got  a  lot  to 
tell  one  another.  .  .  .  I'm  a  stranger  here  really  quite  as  much 
as  you." 

"  No,  you're  not,"  she  said.  "  You  can't  be  so  much  a  stranger 
anywhere  because  you've  been  all  over  the  world  and  are  ready  for 
anything." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  don't  seem  to  manage  the  simplest  things.  Aunt  Elizabeth 
and  I  get  lost  the  moment  we  move  outside  the  door.  .  .  .  Do 
you  like  my  dress?"  she  asked  him. 

"Why!"  he  said,  obviously  startled  by  such  a  question.  "It's 
— it's  splendid  t  " 


118  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  No,  you  know  it  isn't,"  she  answered  quickly,  dropping  her 
voice  into  a  confidential  statement.  u  It's  all  wrong.  I  thought 
you'd  know  why  as  you've  been  everywhere.  Caroline  Smith 
helped  me  to  choose  it,  and  it  looked  all  right  until  I  wore  it.  It's 
me  .  .  .  I'm  hopeless  to  fit.  Caroline  says  so.  I  don't  care 
about  clothes — if  only  I  looked  just  like  anybody  else  I'd  never 
bother  again — but  it's  so  tiresome  to  have  taken  so  much  trouble 
and  then  for  it  to  be  all  wrong." 

Martin  was  then  aware  of  many  things — that  this  was  a  strange 
unusual  girl,  that  she  reassured  him  as  to  her  interest,  her  vitality, 
her  sincerit3^  as  no  girl  had  ever  done  before,  that  his  sister  was 
aware  of  their  intimate  conversation  and  that  she  resented  it,  and 
that  he  must  see  this  girl  again  and  as  soon  as  possible.  He  was 
as  liable  as  any  young  man  in  the  world  to  the  most  sudden  and 
most  violent  enthusiasms,  but  they  had  been  enthusiasms  for  a 
pretty  face,  for  a  sensual  appeal,  for  a  sentimental  moment.  Here 
there  was  no  prettiness,  no  sensuality,  no  sentiment.  There  was 
something  so  new  that  he  felt  like  Cortez  upon  his  peak  in  Darien. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  reassured  her  urgently.  "  It's  all  right.  I 
promise  you  it  is.  The  great  thing  is  to  look  yourself.  And  you'll 
never  be  the  least  like  any  one  else."  He  meant  that  to  be  the  first 
open  declaration  of  his  own  particular  discovery  of  her,  but  he  was 
aware  that  his  sentence  could  have  more  than  one  interpretation. 
Uncomfortably  conscious  then  of  his  sister's  regard  of  them,  he 
looked  up  and  said: 

"  Amy,  Miss  Cardinal's  been  telling  me  how  confusing  London 
is  to  her.  You've  got  as  good  an  idea  of  London  as  any  one  in  the 
world.  You  should  take  her  to  one  or  two  places  and  show  her 
things." 

Amy  Warlock,  every  line  of  her  stiff  body  firing  at  them  both  her 
hostility,  answered: 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  Miss  Cardinal  would  care  for  me  as  a 
guide.  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  show  her  interesting  things.  We 
have  scarcely,  I  should  fancy,  enough  in  common.  Miss  Cardinal's 
interests  are,  I  imagine,  very  different  from  my  own." 

The  tone,  the  words,  fell  into  the  sudden  silence  like  a  lighted 
match  into  water.  Maggie,  her  head  erect,  her  voice,  in  spite  of 
herself,  trembling  a  little,  answered: 

"  Why,  Miss  Warlock,  I  shouldn't  think  of  troubling  you.  It's 
very  kind  of  your  brother,  but  one  must  make  one's  discoveries  for 
oneself,  mustn't  one?  ...  I  am  already  beginning  to  find  my 
way  about." 

After  that  the  tea-party  fell  into  complete  disruption.    Maggie, 


EXPECTATION  119 

although  she  did  not  look,  could  feel  Martin's  anger  like  a  flame 
beside  her.  She  was  aware  that  Aunt  Anne  and  Mr.  Warlock 
were,  like  some  beings  from  another  world,  distant  from  the 
general  confusion.  Her  one  passionate  desire  was  to  get  up  and 
leave  the  place;  to  her  intense  relief  she  heard  Aunt  Anne's 
clear  voice: 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Warlock,  we  must  be  turning  homewards.  Shall 
I  send  you  those  papers  about  the  Perteway's  Mission?  .  .  . 
Such  splendid  work.    I  think  it  would  interest  you." 

It  was  as  though  a  hole  had  suddenly  opened  in  the  floor  of  the 
neat  little  drawing-room  and  they  were  all  hurrying  to  leave  with- 
out, if  possible,  tumbling  into  it.  There  was  a  general  shaking  of 
hands. 

Mrs.  Warlock  said  kindly  to  Maggie : 

*  Do  come  soon  again,  dear.  It  does  an  old  lady  good  to  see 
young  faces." 

Martin  was  near  the  door.  He  almost  crushed  Maggie's  hand 
in  his :  "  I  must  see  you — soon,"  he  whispered. 

Free  from  the  house  Maggie  and  her  aunt  walked  home  in  com- 
plete silence.  Maggie's  heart  was  a  confusion  of  rage,  surprise, 
loneliness  and  pride.  No  one  had  ever  behaved  like  that  to  her 
before.  And  what  had  she  done?  What  was  there  about  her  that 
people  hated?  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Why?  She  felt  as  though,  in 
some  way,  it  had  all  been  Aunt  Anne's  fault.  Why  did  not  Aunt 
Anne  speak?  Well,  if  they  all  hated  her  she  would  go  on  her  own 
way.    She  did  not  care. 

But  alone  in  her  room,  her  face,  indignant,  proud,  quivering, 
surprising  her  in  the  long  mirror  by  its  strangeness,  and  causing 
her  to  feel,  because  it  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her,  more  lonely 
than  ever,  she  burst  out: 

"  I  can't  stand  it.  I  can't  stand  it.  I'll  get  away  ...  so  soon 
as  ever  I  can  1 " 


CHAPTER  in 

MAGGIE   AND   MARTIN 

THAT  moment  in  her  bedroom  altered  for  Maggie  the  course  of 
all  her  future  life.  She  had  never  before  been,  consciously, 
a  rebel;  she  had,  only  a  week  before,  almost  acquiesced  in  the 
thought  that  she  would  remain  in  her  aunts'  house  for  the  rest 
of  her  days ;  now  Mr.  Magnus,  the  Warlocks,  and  her  new  dress  had 
combined  to  fire  her  determination.  She  saw,  quite  suddenly,  that 
she  must  escape  at  the  first  possible  moment. 

The  house  that  had  been  until  now  the  refuge  into  which  she 
had  escaped  became  the  jumping-off  place  for  her  new  adventure. 

Until  now  the  things  in  the  house  had  been  there  to  receive  her 
as  one  of  themselves ;  from  this  moment  they  were  there  to  prevent, 
if  possible,  her  release.  She  felt  everything  instantly  hostile.  They 
all — Thomas  the  cat,  Edward  the  parrot,  the  very  sofas  and  chairs 
and  cushions — were  determined  not  to  let  her  go. 

She  saw,  more  than  ever  before,  that  her  aunts  were  preparing 
some  religious  trap  for  her.  They  were  very  quiet  about  it;  they 
did  not  urge  her  or  bully  her,  but  the  subtle,  silent  influence  went 
on  so  that  the  very  stair-carpet,  the  very  scuttles  that  held  the  coal, 
became  secret  messengers  to  hale  her  into  the  chapel  and  shut  her 
in  there  for  ever.  After  her  first  visit  there  the  chapel  became  a 
nightmare  to  her — because,  at  once,  she  had  felt  its  power.  She 
had  known — she  had  always  known  and  it  had  not  needed  Mr. 
Magnus  to  tell  her — that  there  was  something  in  this  religion — yes, 
even  in  the  wretched  dirt  and  disorder  of  her  father's  soul — but 
with  that  realisation  that  there  was  indeed  something,  had  come 
also  the  resolved  conviction  that  life  could  not  be  happy,  simple, 
successful  unless  one  broke  from  that  power  utterly,  refused  its  dic- 
tates, gave  no  hearing  to  its  messages,  surrendered  nothing — abso- 
lutely nothing — to  its  influence.  Had  not  some  one  said  to  her 
once,  or  was  it  not  in  her  little  red  A  Kempis,  that  "  once  caught 
one  might  never  escape  again  "  ? 

She  would  prove  that,  in  her  own  struggle  and  independence,  to 
be  untrue.  The  chapel  should  not  have  her,  nor  her  father's  ghost, 
nor  the  dim  half-visualised  thoughts  and  memories  that  rose  like 
dark  shadows  in  her  soul  and  vanished  again.     She  would  believe 

120 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  121 

in  nothing  save  what  she  could  see,  listen  to  nothing  that  was  not 
clear  and  simple  before  her.    She  was  mistress  of  her  own  soul. 

She  did  not,  in  this  fashion,  think  things  out  for  herself.  To 
herself  she  simply  expressed  it  that  she  was  going  to  lead  her  own 
life,  to  earn  her  own  living,  to  fight  for  herself;  and  that  the 
sooner  she  escaped  this  gloomy,  damp,  and  ill-tempered  house  the 
better.  She  would  never  say  her  prayers  again;  she  would  never 
read  the  Bible  again  to  herself  or  any  one  else;  she  would  never 
kneel  on  those  hard  chapel  kneelers  again;  she  would  never  listen 
to  Mr.  Warlock's  sermons  again — once  she  had  escaped. 

Meanwhile  she  said  nothing  at  all  to  herself  about  Martin  War- 
lock, who  was  really  at  the  root  of  the  whole  matter. 

She  began  at  once  to  take  steps.  Two  years  before  this  a  lady 
had  paid,  with  her  sister,  a  short  visit  to  St.  Dreots  and  had 
taken  a  great  liking  to  Maggie.  They  had  made  friends,  and  this 
lady,  a  Miss  Katherine  Trenchard,  had  begged  Maggie  to  let  her 
know  if  she  came  to  London  and  needed  help  or  advice.  Miss 
Trenchard  divided  her  life  between  London  and  a  place  called 
Garth  in  Roselands  in  Glebeshire,  and  Maggie  did  not  know  where 
she  would  be  now — but,  after  some  little  hesitation,  she  wrote  a 
letter,  speaking  of  the  death  of  her  father  and  of  her  desire  to 
find  some  work  in  London,  and  directed  it  to  Garth. 

Now  of  course  she  must  post  it  herself — no  allowing  it  to  lie 
on  the  hall-table  with  old  Martha  to  finger  it  and  the  aunts  to 
speculate  upon  it  and  finally  challenge  her  with  its  destiny. 

On  a  bright  evening  when  the  house  was  as  dark  as  a  shut  box 
and  an  early  star,  frightened  at  its  irregular  and  lonely  appear- 
ance, suddenly  flashed  like  a  curl  of  a  golden  whip  across  the  sky, 
Maggie  slipped  out  of  the  house.  She  realised,  with  a  triumphant 
and  determined  nod  of  her  head,  that  she  had  never  been  out  alone 
in  London  before — a  ridiculous  and  shameful  fact!  She  knew 
that  there  was  a  pillar-box  just  round  the  corner,  but  because  she 
had  a  hat  upon  her  head  and  shoes  upon  her  feet  she  thought  that 
she  might  as  well  post  it  in  the  Strand,  an  exciting  river  of 
tempestuous  sound  into  which  she  had  as  yet  scarcely  penetrated. 
She  slipped  out  of  the  front  door,  then  waited  a  moment,  looking 
back  at  the  silent  house.  No  one  stirred  in  their  street;  the  noise 
of  the  Strand  came  up  to  her  like  wind  beyond  a  valley  She 
must  have  felt,  in  that  instant,  that  she  was  making  some  plunge 
into  hazardous  waters  and  she  must  have  hesitated  as  to  whether 
she  would  not  spring  back  into  the  quiet  house,  lock  and  bolt  the 
door,  and  never  go  out  again.  But,  after  that  one  glance,  she  went 
forward. 


122  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  had  never  before  in  her  life  been  on  any  errand  alone,  and 
at  this  evening  hour  the  Strand  was  very  full.  She  stood  still 
clinging  to  the  safe  privacy  of  her  own  street  and  peering  over 
into  the  blaze  and  quiver  of  the  tumult.  In  the  Strand  end  of 
her  own  street  there  were  several  dramatic  agencies,  a  second-hand 
book  and  print  shop  with  piles  of  dirty  music  in  the  barrow  out- 
side the  window,  a  little  restaurant  with  cold  beef,  an  ancient 
chicken,  hard-boiled  eggs  and  sponge  cakes  under  glass  domes  in 
the  window;  everywhere  about  her  were  dim  doors,  glimpses  of 
twisting  stairs,  dusty  windows  and  figures  flitting  up  and  down, 
in  and  out  as  though  they  were  marionettes  pulled  by  invisible 
strings  to  fulfil  some  figure. 

These  were  all  in  the  dusk  of  the  side-street;  a  large  draper's 
with  shirts  and  collars  and  grinning  wax  boys  in  sailor  suits 
caught  with  its  front  windows  the  Strand  lamps.  It  was  beside 
the  shop  that  Maggie  stood  for  an  instant  hesitating.  She  could 
see  no  pillar-box ;  she  could  see  nothing  save  the  streams  of  human 
beings,  slipping  like  water  between  the  banks  of  houses. 

She  hesitated,  clinging  to  the  draper's  shop;  then,  suddenly 
catching  sight  of  the  pillar-box  a  few  yards  down  the  street,  she 
let  herself  go,  had  a  momentary  sensation  of  swimming  in  a  sea 
desperately  crowded  with  other  bodies,  fought  against  the  fierce 
gaze  of  lights  that  beat  straight  upon  her  eyes,  found  the  box, 
slipped  in  the  letter,  and  then,  almost  at  once,  was  back  in  her 
quiet  quarters  again. 

She  turned  and,  her  heart  beating,  hurried  home.  The  house 
door  was  still  ajar.  She  pushed  it  back,  slipped  inside,  caught  her 
breath  and  listened.  Then  she  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her, 
and  with  that  little  act  of  attempted  secrecy  realised  that  she  was 
now  a  rebel,  that  things  could  never  be,  for  her,  the  same  again 
as  they  had  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  That  glittering  crowd, 
the  lamps,  the  smells,  the  sounds,  had  concentrated  themselves  into 
a  little  fiery  charm  that  held  her  heart  within  a  flaming  circle. 
She  felt  the  most  audacious  creature  in  the  world — and  also  the 
most  ignorant.  Not  helpless — no,  never  helpless — but  so  ignorant 
that  all  her  life  that  had  seemed  to  her,  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago,  so  tensely  crowded  with  events  and  crises  was  now  empty  and 
barren  like  the  old  straw-smelling  cab  at  home.  She  did  not  want 
to  offend  her  aunts  and  hurt  their  feelings,  but  she  was  a  living, 
breathing,  independent  creature  and  she  must  go  her  own  way. 
Neither  they  nor  their  chapel  should  stop  her — no,  not  the 
chapel  nor  any  one  in  it. 

She  was  standing,  motionless,  in  the  dark  cold  hall,  wondering 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  123 

whether  any  one  had  heard  her  enter,  when  she  was  suddenly  con- 
scious of  two  eyes  that  watched  her — two  steady  fiery  eyes  sus- 
pended as  it  seemed  in  mid  air.  She  realised  that  it  was  the  cat. 
The  cat  hated  her  and  she  hated  it.  She  had  not  realised  that  be- 
fore, but  now  with  the  illumination  of  the  lighted  street  behind  her 
she  realised  it.  The  cat  was  the  spirit  of  the  chapel  watching  her, 
spying  upon  her  tc  see  that  she  did  not  escape.  The  cat  knew 
that  she  had  posted  her  letter  and  to  whom  she  had  posted  it. 
She  advanced  to  the  bottom  of  the  stair  and  said:  "Brr.  You 
horrid  thing!  I  hate  you!"  and  instantly  the  two  fiery  eyes  had 
vanished,  but  now  in  their  place  the  whole  house  seemed  to  be 
watching,  so  silent  and  attentive  was  it — and  the  odour  of  damp 
biscuits  and  wet  umbrellas  seemed  to  be  everywhere. 

Just  then  old  Martha  came  out  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand,  and 
standing  upon  a  chair,  lit  the  great  ugly  gas  over  the  middle  of 
the  door. 

"  Why,  Miss  Maggie,"  she  said  in  her  soft,  surprised  whisper, 
looking  as  she  always  did,  beyond  the  girl,  into  darkness. 

"  I've  been  out,"  said  Maggie,  defiantly. 

"  Not  all  alone,  miss  ?  " 

H  All  alone,"  said  Maggie.  "  Why  not  ?  I  can  look  after  my- 
self." 

"Well,  there's  your  uncle  waiting  in  the  drawing-room — just 
come,"  said  the  old  woman,  climbing  down  from  the  chair  with 
that  silent  imperturbable  discontent  that  always  frightened 
Maggie. 

"  Uncle  Mathew !  Here !  in  this  house ! "  Maggie,  even  in  the 
moment  of  her  first  astonishment,  was  amazed  at  her  own  delight. 
That  she  should  ever  feel  that  about  Uncle  Mathew!  Truly  it 
showed  how  unhappy  she  had  been,  and  she  ran  upstairs,  two  steps 
at  a  time,  and  pushed  back  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Uncle  Mathew !  "  she  cried. 

Then  at  the  sight  of  him  she  stood  where  she  was.  The  man 
who  faced  her,  with  all  his  old  confusion  of  nervousness  and 
uneasy  geniality,  was,  indeed,  Uncle  Mathew,  but  Uncle  Mathew 
glorified,  shabbily  glorified  and  at  the  same  time  a  little  abashed 
as  though  she  had  caught  him  in  the  act  of  laying  a  mine  that 
would  blow  up  the  whole  house.  He  was  wearing  finer  clothes  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him  in  before — a  frock  coat,  quite  new  but  fit- 
ting him  badly,  so  that  it  was  buttoned  too  tightly  across  his 
stomach  and  loose  across  the  back.  He  had  a  white  flower  in  his 
button-hole,  and  a  rather  soiled  white  handkerchief  protruded  from 
his  breast-pocket.     One  leg  of  his  dark  grey  trousers  had  been 


124  THE  CAPTIVES 

creased  in  two  places,  and  there  were  little  spots  of  blood  on  his 
high  white  collar  because  he  had  cut  himself  shaving.  His  com- 
plexion was  of  the  same  old  suppressed  purple,  but  his  little  eyes 
were  bright  and  shining  and  active;  they  danced  towards  Maggie. 
His  scanty  locks  had  been  carefully  brushed  over  his  bald  head, 
and  his  hands,  although  they  were  still  puffed  and  swollen,  were 
whiter  than  Maggie  had  ever  seen  them. 

But  it  was  in  the  end  his  attitude  of  confused  defiance  that 
made  her  pause.  What  had  he  been  doing,  or  what  did  he  intend 
to  do?  He  was  prosperous,  she  could  see,  and  knowing  him  as 
she  did,  she  was  afraid  of  his  prosperity.  She  had  never  in  her 
life  realised  so  clearly  as  she  did  now  that  he  was  a  wicked  old 
man — and  still  she  was  glad  to  see  him.  He  was  an  odd  enough 
creature  in  that  room,  and  that,  she  was  aware,  pleased  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said  very  genially,  as  though  they  met  again 
after  an  hour's  parting,  "  how  are  you  ?  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you 
— looking  so  well  too.  And  quite  smart.  Your  aunts  dressed 
you  up.  I  thought  I  must  look  at  you.  I'm  staying  just  round  the 
corner,  and  my  first  thought  was  'I  wonder  how  she's  getting  on 
in  all  that  tom-foolery.  You  bet  she's  keeping  her  head.'  And 
so  you  are.    One  can  see  at  a  glance." 

She  went  up  to  him,  kissed  him,  and  smelt  whisky  and  some  scent 
that  had  geraniums  in  it.  He  put  his  arm  round  her,  with  his 
old  unsteady  gesture,  and  held  her  to  him  for  a  moment,  then 
patted  her  back  with  his  large,  soft  hand. 

"  Your  aunt's  a  long  time.    I've  been  waiting  half  an  hour." 

"  They've  been  to  some  meeting."  She  stood  looking  at  him 
with  her  fine  steady  gaze  that  had  always  made  him  afraid  of  her, 
and  did  so,  to  his  own  surprise,  again  now.  He  had  thought  that 
his  clothes  would  have  saved  him  from  that ;  his  fingers  felt  at  his 
button-hole.    Looking  at  him  she  said: 

"Uncle,  I  want  to  get  away — out  of  this — at  once.  No,  they 
aren't  horrid  to  me.  Every  one's  been  very  kind.  But  I'm  afraid 
of  it  all — of  never  getting  out  of  it — and  I  want  to  be  indepen- 
dent. ..."  She  stopped  with  a  little  breathless  gasp  because 
she  heard  the  hall-door  close.  "  Ah,  they're  here !  Don't  tell  them 
anything.    We'll  talk  afterwards.   ..." 

His  eyes  glittered  with  satisfaction.  "  I  knew  you  would,  my 
dear.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  stand  it.  .  .  .  I'll  get  you 
out  of  it.  .    .    .  Trust  me !  " 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Anne  came  in.  She  had  been  pre- 
pared by  Martha  for  her  visitor,  and  she  came  forward  to  him  now 
with  the  dignity  and  kindly  patronage  of  some  lady  abbess  receiv- 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  125 

ing  the  miscreant  and  boorish  yokel  of  a  neighbouring  village. 
And  yet  how  fine  she  was!  As  Maggie  watched  her,  she  thought 
of  what  she  would  give  to  have  some  of  that  self-command  and 
dignity  and  decision.  Was  it  her  religion  that  gave  her  that?  Or 
only  her  own  self-satisfaction?  No;  there  was  something  behind 
Aunt  Anne,  something  stronger  than  she,  something  that  Mr. 
Warlock  also  knew  .  .  .  and  it  was  this  something  that  Uncle 
Mathew  met  with  his  own  hostility  as  he  looked  up  now  at  his 
sister  and  greeted  her: 

"  Why,  Mathew !  You  never  told  us.  I  would  have  hurried  back, 
and  now  Elizabeth,  I'm  afraid,  has  gone  on  to  see  some  friends. 
She  will  be  so  disappointed.  But  at  least  you've  had  Maggie  to 
entertain  you." 

A  quick  glance  was  exchanged  between  uncle  and  niece. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we've  had  a  talk,  Anne,  thank  you.  And  it 
doesn't  matter  about  Elizabeth,  because  I'm  staying  close  here  in 
Henrietta  Street,  and  I'll  be  in  again  if  I  may.  I  just  looked 
in  to  ask  whether  Maggie  might  come  and  have  dinner  with  me  at 
my  little  place  to-night.  It's  a  most  respectable  place — I'll  come 
and  fetch  her,  of  course,  and  bring  her  back  afterwards." 

Of  course  Aunt  Anne  could  not  refuse,  but  oh !  how  Maggie  saw 
that  she  wanted  to!  The  battle  that  followed  was  silent.  Uncle 
Mathew's  eyes  narrowed  themselves  to  fiery  malicious  points;  he 
dropped  them  and  moved  his  feet  restlessly  on  the  soft  carpet. 

"  Quite  respectable !  "  he  repeated. 

Aunt  Anne  smiled  gently.  "  Why,  of  course,  Mathew.  I  know 
you'll  look  after  Maggie.  It  will  be  a  change  for  her.  She's  been 
having  rather  a  dull  time  here,  I'm  afraid." 

Then  there  was  silence.  Maggie  wanted  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come,  and  she  had  the  curious  sensation  that  even  if 
she  did  find  them  no  one  would  hear  them. 

Then  Uncle  Mathew  suddenly  said  good-bye,  stumbled  over  his 
boots  by  the  door,  shot  out,  "  Seven  o'clock,  Maggie  " — and  was 
gone. 

"Well,  that  will  be  nice  for  you,  Maggie,"  said  Anne,  looking 
at  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie.    "You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

a  No  dear,  of  course  not." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  Maggie  broke  out  desperately. 
"I  know  I'm  not  satisfying  you  and  yet  you  won't  say  anything. 
Do  tell  me — and  I'll  try — anything — almost  anything  ..." 

Then  the  sudden  memory  of  her  own  posted  letter  silenced  her. 
Was  that  readiness  to  do  "  anything  "  ?    Had  that  not  been  rebel- 


126  THE  CAPTIVES 

lion  ?  And  had  she  not  asked  Uncle  Mathew  to  help  her  to  escape  ? 
The  consciousness  of  her  dishonesty  coloured  her  cheek  with 
crimson.  Then  Aunt  Anne,  very  tenderly,  put  her  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Will  you  really  do  anything — for  me,  Maggie — for  me  ? "  Her 
voice  was  gentle  and  her  eyes  had  tears  in  them.  "  If  you  will — 
there  are  things  very  close  to  my  heart " 

Maggie  turned  away,  trembling.  She  hung  her  head,  then  with 
a  sudden  movement  walked  to  the  door. 

"  You  must  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  you  want.  I'll  try — I  don't 
understand." 

Then  as  though  she  was  aware  that  she  was  fighting  the  whole 
room  which  had  already  almost  entrapped  her  and  that  the  fight 
was  too  much  for  her,  she  went. 

When  she  came  to  her  own  room  and  thought  about  her  invita- 
tion she  wished,  with  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  that  she  had  a 
pretty  frock  or  two.  She  would  have  loved  to  have  been  grand 
to-night,  and  now  the  best  that  she  could  do  was  to  add  her  coral 
necklace  and  a  little  gold  brooch  that  years  ago  her  father  had 
given  her,  to  the  black  dress  that  she  was  already  wearing.  She 
realised,  with  a  strange  little  pang  of  loneliness,  that  she  had  not 
had  one  evening's  fun  since  her  arrival  in  London — no,  not  one — 
and  she  would  not  have  captured  to-night  had  Aunt  Anne  been  able 
to  prevent  it. 

Then  as  her  mind  returned  back  to  her  uncle  she  felt  with  a 
throb  of  excited  anticipation  that  perhaps  after  all  this  evening 
was  to  prove  the  turning-point  of  her  life.  Her  little  escape  into 
the  streets,  her  posting  of  the  letter,  had  been  followed  so  im- 
mediately by  Uncle  Mathew's  visit,  and  now  this  invitation! 

"  No  one  can  keep  me  if  I  want  to  go,"  and  the  old  cuckoo-clock 
outside  seemed  to  tick  in  reply : 

u  Can  no  one  keep  her  if  she  wants  to  go  ? " 

She  finished  her  preparations;  as  she  fastened  the  coral  necklace 
round  her  neck  the  face  of  Martin  Warlock  was  suddenly  before 
her.    He  had  been  perhaps  at  her  elbow  all  day. 

"  I  like  him  and  I  think  he  likes  me,"  she  said  to  the  mirror. 
u  I've  got  one  friend,"  and  her  thought  still  further  was  that  even 
if  he  didn't  like  her  he  couldn't  prevent  her  liking  Mm. 

She  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  and  found  Uncle  Mathew, 
alone,  waiting  for  her. 

"  Here  I  am,  Maggie,"  he  said.  *  And  let's  get  out  of  this  as 
quick  as  we  can." 

"  I  must  go  and  say  good-night  to  the  aunts,"  she  said. 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  127 

She  went  upstairs  to  Aunt  Anne's  bedroom.  Entering  it  was 
always  to  her  like  passing  into  a  shadowed  church  after  the  hot 
sunshine — the  long,  thin  room  with  high  slender  windows,  the 
long  hard  bed,  of  the  most  perfect  whiteness  and  neatness,  the 
heavy  black-framed  picture  of  "The  Ascension"  over  the  bed, 
and  the  utter  stillness  broken  by  no  sound  of  clock  or  bell — even 
the  fire  seemed  frozen  into  a  glassy  purity  in  the  grate. 

Her  aunt  was  sitting,  as  so  often  Maggie  found  her,  in  a  stiff- 
backed  chair,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  staring  in  front  of  her. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  open  eyes  of  a  dead  woman;  it  was  as 
though,  with  a  great  effort  of  almost  desperate  concentration,  she 
were  driving  her  vision  against  some  obstinate  world  of  opposi- 
tion, and  the  whole  of  life  had  meanwhile  stayed  to  watch  the 
issue. 

A  thin  pale  light  from  some  street  lamp  lay,  a  faintly  golden 
shadow,  across  the  white  ceiling. 

Maggie  stood  by  the  door. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-night,  aunt." 

"  Ah,  Maggie  dear,  is  that  you  ? "  The  pale  oval  face  turned 
towards  her. 

"  You  won't  be  very  late,  will  you  ?  "  t 

"  Hadn't  I  better  have  a  key,  not  to  bother  Martha  ? " 

"  Oh,  Martha  won't  have  gone  to  bed." 

Maggie  felt  as  though  her  whole  evening  would  be  spoilt  did  she 
know  that  Martha  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  end  of  it. 

"Oh,  but  it  will  be  such  a  pity " 

"Martha  will  let  you  in,  dear.  Come  and  kiss  me;  I  hope 
that  you'll  enjoy  yourself." 

And  then  the  strangest  thing  happened.  Maggie  bent  down. 
She  felt  a  tear  upon  her  cheek  and  then  the  thin  strong  arms  held 
her,  for  an  instant,  in  an  almost  threatening  embrace. 

"  Good-night,  dear  aunt,"  she  said ;  but,  outside  the  room,  she 
had  to  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  dark  passage  to  regain  her  con- 
trol ;  her  heart  was  beating  with  wild  unreasoning  terror.  Although 
she  had  brushed  her  cheek  with  her  hand  the  cold  touch  of  the 
tears  still  lingered  there. 

Outside  the  house  they  were  free.  It  looked  so  close  and  dark 
behind  them  that  Maggie  shivered  a  little  and  put  her  arm  through 
her  uncle's. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  patting  her  hand.  "  We're  going  to 
enjoy  ourselves." 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Martin  Warlock  facing  her.  The  unex- 
pected meeting  held  both  of  them  silent  for  a  moment.    To  her  it 


128  THE  CAPTIVES 

seemed  that  he  had  risen  out  of  the  very  stones  of  the  pavement, 
at  her  bidding,  to  make  her  evening  wonderful.  He  looked  so 
strong,  so  square,  so  solid  after  the  phantom  imaginations  of  the 
house  that  she  had  left,  that  the  sight  of  him  was  a  step  straight 
into  the  heart  of  comfort  and  reassurance. 

"  I  was  just  coming,"  he  said,  looking  at  her,  "  to  leave  a  note 
for  Miss  Cardinal — from  my  father " 

"  She's  in,"  Maggie  said. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  to  bother  her — only  to  leave  the  note.  About 
some  meeting,  I  think." 

"  We're  just  going  out.    This  is  my  uncle — Mr.  Warlock." 

The  two  men  shook  hands. 

Mathew  Cardinal  smiled.  His  eyes  closed,  his  greeting  had  an 
urgency  in  it  as  though  he  had  suddenly  made  some  discovery  that 
gratified  and  amused  him.  "Very  glad  to  meet  you — very  glad, 
indeed,  sir.  Any  friend  of  my  niece's.  I  know  your  father,  sir; 
know  him  and  admire  him." 

They  all  turned  down  the  street  together.  Uncle  Mathew  talked, 
and  then,  quite  suddenly,  stopping  under  a  lamp-post  as  though 
within  the  circle  of  light  his  charm  were  stronger,  he  said: 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Warlock,  you  wouldn't  do  me  the  great,  the 
extreme,  honour  of  dining  with  myself  and  my  niece  at  my  humble 
little  inn  to-night?  A  little  sudden — I  hope  you'll  forgive  the  dis- 
courtesy— but  knowing  your  father " 

Martin  looked  straight  into  Maggie's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  please  do ! "  she  said,  her  heart  beating,  as  it  seemed, 
against  her  eyes  so  that  she  dropped  them. 

u  Well "  he  hesitated.    "  It's  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Cardinal 

— very  kind.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  going  to  dine  alone  to- 
night— just  a  chop,  you  know,  somewhere — if  it's  really  not  incon- 
venient I'll  be  delighted " 

They  walked  on  together. 

As  they  passed  into  Garrick  Street,  she  knew  that  she  had  never 
in  all  her  life  been  so  glad  to  be  with  any  one,  tbit  she  had  never 
so  completely  trusted  any  one,  that  she  would  like  to  be  with  him 
often,  to  look  after  him,  perhaps,  and  to  be  looked  after  by  him. 

Her  feeling  for  him  was  almost  sexless,  because  she  had  never 
thought,  as  most  girls  do,  of  love  and  the  intrigue  and  coquetry 
of  love.  She  was  so  simple  as  to  be  shameless,  and  at  once,  if  he 
had  asked  her  then  in  the  street  to  marry  him  she  would  have  said 
yes  without  hesitation  or  fear,  or  any  analysis.  She  would  like 
to  look  after  him  as  well  as  herself — there  were  things  she  was 
sure  that  she  could  do  for  him — and  she  would  be  no  burden  to 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  129 

him  because  she  intended,  in  any  case,  to  lead  her  own  life.  She 
would  simply  lead  it  with  a  companion  instead  of  without  one. 

He  must  have  felt  as  he  walked  with  her  this  trust  and  sim- 
plicity. She  was  certainly  the  most  extraordinary  girl  whom  he 
had  ever  met,  and  he'd  met  a  number.  .    .    . 

He  could  believe  every  word  she  said;  he  had  never  known  any 
one  so  direct  and  simple  and  honest,  and  yet  with  that  she  was 
not  a  fool,  as  most  honest  girls  were.  No,  she  was  not  a  fool.  He 
would  have  given  anything  to  be  as  sure  of  himself.  .   .   . 

She  was  plain — but  then  was  she?  As  they  passed  beneath  the 
light  of  a  street  lamp  his  heart  gave  a  sudden  beat.  Her  face  was 
so  good,  her  eyes  so  true,  her  mouth  so  strong.  She  was  like  a 
boy,  rather — and,  of  course,  she  was  dressed  badly.  But  he  wanted 
to  look  after  her.  He  was  sure  that  she  knew  so  little  of  the  world 
and  would  be  so  easily  deceived.  .  .  .  But  who  was  he  to  look 
after  any  one? 

He  knew  that  she  would  trust  him  utterly,  and  trust  him  not 
only  because  she  was  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  also  because  she 
was  herself  so  true.  At  the  thought  of  this  trust  his  heart  sud- 
denly warmed,  partly  with  shame  and  partly  with  pride. 

They  walked  very  happily  along  laughing  and  talking.  They 
turned  into  Henrietta  Street,  misty  with  lamps  that  were  dim  in 
a  thin  evening  fog,  and  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  facing  the 
Square,  was  Uncle  Mathew's  hotel.  It  was  a  place  for  the  use, 
in  the  main,  of  commercial  gentlemen,  and  it  was  said  by  eager 
searchers  after  local  colour,  to  have  retained  a  great  deal  of  the 
Dickens  spirit.  In  the  hall  there  was  a  stout  gentleman  with  a 
red  nose,  a  soiled  waiter,  a  desolate  palm  and  a  large-bosomed  lady 
all  rings  and  black  silk,  in  a  kind  of  wooden  cage.  Down  the 
stairs  came  a  dim  vapour  that  smelt  of  beef,  whisky  and  tobacco, 
and  in  the  distance  was  the  regular  click  of  billiard-balls  and  the 
brazen  muffled  tones  of  a  gramophone. 

Uncle  Mathew  seemed  perfectly  at  home  here,  and  it  was  strange 
to  Maggie  that  he  should  be  so  nervous  with  Aunt  Anne,  his  own 
sister,  when  he  could  be  so  happily  familiar  with  the  powdered 
lady  in  the  black  silk. 

"We're  to  have  dinner  in  a  private  room  upstairs,"  said  Uncle 
Mathew  in  a  voice  that  was  casual  and  at  the  same  time  important. 
He  led  the  way  up  the  stairs. 

Maggie  had  read  in  some  old  bound  volume  at  home  a  very  grue- 
some account  of  the  "  Life  and  Misdeeds  of  Mr.  Palmer,  the  Ruge- 
ley  Poisoner."  The  impression  that  still  remained  with  her  was 
of  a  man  standing  in  the  shadowy  hall  of  just  such  an  hotel  as 


130  THE  CAPTIVES 

this,  and  pouring  poison  into  a  glass  which  he  held  up  against  the 
light.  This  picture  had  been  vividly  with  her  during  her  child- 
hood, and  she  felt  that  this  must  have  been  the  very  hotel  where 
those  fearful  deeds  occurred,  and  that  the  ghost  of  Mr.  Palmer's 
friend  must,  at  this  very  moment,  be  writhing  in  an  upstairs 
bedroom — "  writhing,"  as  she  so  fearfully  remembered,  bent  u  like 
a  hoop." 

However,  these  reminiscences  did  not  in  the  least  terrify  her; 
she  welcomed  their  definite  outlines  in  contrast  with  the  shadowy 
possibilities  of  her  aunts'  house.  And  she  had  Martin  Warlock. 
.    .   .  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in  all  her  life. 

A  dismal  little  waiter  with  a  very  soiled  shirt  and  a  black  tie 
under  his  ear,  guided  them  down  into  a  dark  passage  and  flung 
open  the  door  of  a  sitting-room.  This  room  was  dark  and  sizzling 
with  strange  noises;  a  gas-jet  burning  low  was  hissing,  some  papers 
rustled  in  the  breeze  from  the  half-opened  window,  and  a  fire, 
overburdened  with  the  weight  of  black  coal,  made  frantic  little 
spurts  of  resistance. 

A  white  cloth  was  laid  on  the  table,  and  there  were  glasses  and 
knives  and  forks.  A  highly-coloured  portrait  of  her  late  Majesty 
Queen  Victoria  confronted  a  long-legged  horse  desperately  winning 
a  race  in  which  he  had  apparently  no  competitors.  There  was  a 
wall-paper  of  imitation  marble  and  a  broken-down  book-case  with 
some  torn  paper  editions  languishing  upon  it.  Beyond  the  open 
window  there  was  a  purple  haze  and  a  yellow  mist — also  a  bell 
rang  and  carts  rattled  over  the  cobbles.  The  waiter  shut  out  these 
sights  and  sound*,  gave  the  tablecloth  a  stroke  with  his  dirty  hand, 
and  left  the  room. 

They  continued  their  cheerful  conversation,  Martin  laughing  at 
nothing  at  all,  and  Maggie  smiling,  and  Uncle  Mathew  stroking  his 
mouth  and  sharpening  his  eyes  and  standing,  in  his  uneasy  fashion, 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other.  Maggie  realised  that  her 
uncle  was  trying  to  be  most  especially  pleasant  to  young  Warlock. 
She  wondered  why;  she  also  remembered  what  he  had  said  to  her 
about  Martin's  father.  .  .  .  No,  he  had  changed.  She  could  not 
follow  his  motives  as  she  had  once  been  able  to  do.  Then  he 
had  simply  been  a  foolish,  drunken,  but  kindly-intentioned  old 
man. 

Then  Mr.  Warlock  on  his  side  seemed  to  like  her  uncle.  That 
was  an  extraordinary  thing.  Or  was  he  only  being  friendly  be- 
cause he  was  happy  ?  No,  she  remembered  his  face  as  he  had  joined 
them  that  evening.  He  had  not  been  happy  then.  She  liked  him 
the  more  because  she  knew  that  he  needed  help.  .   .  . 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  131 

The  meal,  produced  at  last  by  the  poor  little  waiter,  was  very 
merry.  The  food  was  not  wonderful — the  thick  pea-soup  was  cold, 
the  sole  bones  and  skin,  the  roast  beef  tepid  and  the  apple-tart 
heavy.  The  men  drank  whiskies  and  sodas,  and  Maggie  noticed 
that  her  uncle  drank  very  little.  And  then  (with  apologies  to 
Maggie)  they  smoked  cigars,  and  she  sat  before  the  dismal  fire  in 
an  old  armchair  with  a  hole  in  it. 

Martin  Warlock  talked  in  a  most  delightful  way  about  his 
travels,  and  Uncle  Mathew  asked  him  questions  that  were  not, 
after  all,  so  stupid.  What  had  happened  to  him?  Had  Maggie 
always  undervalued  him,  or  was  it  that  he  was  sober  now  and 
clear-headed?  His  fat  round  thighs  seemed  stronger,  his  hands 
6eemed  cleaner,  the  veins  in  his  face  were  not  so  purple.  She 
remembered  the  night  when  he  had  come  into  her  room.  She  had 
been  able  to  manage  him  then.  Would  she  be  able  to  manage 
him  now? 

After  dinner  he  grew  very  restless.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the 
door,  then  to  his  watch,  then  to  his  companions ;  he  smiled  uneasily, 
pulling  his  moustache;  then — jumping  to  his  feet,  tried  to  speak 
with  an  easy  self-confidence. 

"  I  must  leave  you  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  ...  A  matter  of 
business,  only  in  this  hotel.  Downstairs.  Yes.  A  friend  of  mine 
and  a  little  matter.    Urgent.    I'm  sure  you'll  forgive  me." 

For  a  moment  Maggie  was  frightened.  She  was  here  in  a  strange 
hotel  in  a  strange  room  with  a  man  whom  she  scarcely  knew.  Then 
she  looked  up  into  young  Warlock's  face  and  was  reassured.  She 
could  trust  him. 

He  stood  with  his  arm  on  the  shabby,  dusty  mantelpiece,  look- 
ing down  upon  her  with  his  good-natured  kindly  smile,  so  kindly 
that  she  felt  that  he  was  younger  than  she  and  needed  protection 
in  a  world  that  was  filled  with  designing  Uncle  Mathews  and 
mysterious  Aunt  Annes  and  horrible  Miss  Warlocks. 

He,  on  his  side,  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  was  surprised  at  his 
own  excitement.  His  heart  was  beating,  his  hand  trembling — be- 
fore this  plain,  ordinary,  unattractive  girl!  Unattractive  physi- 
cally— but  not  uninteresting.  One  of  the  most  interesting  human 
beings  whom  he  had  ever  met,  simply  because  she  was  utterly  unlike 
any  one  else.  He  felt  shame  before  her,  because  he  knew  that 
she  would  believe  every  word  that  he  said.  In  that  she  was  simple, 
but  "he  would  be  bothered  if  she  was  simple  in  anything  else." 
She  had  made  up  her  mind — he  knew  it  as  well  as  though  she 
had  told  him — to  trust  him  absolutely,  and  he  knew  well  enough 
how  little  he  was  to  be  trusted.    And  because  of  that  faith  and 


\ 


132  THE  CAPTIVES 

because  of  that  trust  he  felt  that  she  was  more  reliable  than  he 
could  have  believed  that  changing  fickle  human  being  would  ever 
be.    How  secure  he  might  feel  with  her! 

Then,  as  he  thought  that,  he  realised  how  troubled  he  was  about 
his  life  at  home  during  the  last  weeks.  Amy  hated  him,  his  mother 
hid  herself  from  him,  and  his  father's  love  frightened  him. 
Already  he  had  found  himself  telling  lies  to  avoid  the  chapel 
services  and  the  meetings  with  Thurston  and  the  rest.  His  father's 
love  for  him  had  something  terrible  in  it,  and,  although  he  returned 
it,  he  could  not  live  up  to  that  fire  and  heat. 

No;  he  saw  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  remain  for  long  at 
home.  On  the  other  hand,  go  back  to  the  old  wandering  life  he 
would  not.  He  had  had  enough  of  that  and  its  rotten  carelessness 
and  shabbiness.  What  a  girl  this  would  be  to  settle  down  with 
somewhere!  So  strange  that  she  would  be  always  interesting,  so 
faithful  that  she  would  be  always  there!  Nor  was  he  entirely 
selfish.  Her  childishness,  her  ignorance,  appealed  to  him  for  pro- 
tection. She  had  no  one  but  those  old  aunts  to  care  for  her,  she 
was  poor  and  rebellious  and  ignorant.  Warlock  was  kind-hearted 
beyond  the  normal  charity  of  man — much  of  his  weakness  came 
from  that  very  kindness. 

As  he  saw  which  way  he  was  going  he  tried  to  pull  himself 
back.  He  could  not  protect  her — he  had  the  best  of  reasons  for 
knowing  why.  He  could  do  her  nothing  but  harm  .  .  .  and  yet 
he  went  on. 

He  took  a  chair  close  to  her  and  sat  down.  He,  who  had  known 
in  his  time  many  women,  could  see  how  happy  she  was.  That 
happiness  excited  him.  Suddenly  he  held  her  hand.  She  did  not 
remove  it. 

"Look  here,"  he  began,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  hoarseness 
of  his  voice,  "  your  uncle  will  be  back  in  a  moment,  and  we  never 
have  a  chance  of  being  alone.  I've  wanted  to  talk  to  you  ever  since 
I  first  saw  you." 

He  felt  her  hand  move  in  his.  That  stir  was  so  helpless  that 
he  suddenly  determined  to  be  honest. 

*  I  think  you'll  trust  me,  won't  you  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  mustn't,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  his  eyes  on  the  door. 
"I'm  not  worse,  I  suppose,  than  other  men,  but  all  the  same  I'm 
not  to  be  trusted.  And  when  I  say  I'm  not  to  be  trusted  I  mean 
that  I  myself  don't  know  whether  I'll  keep  my  word  from  one 
minute  to  another.  I'm  sure  you  don't  know  very  much  about 
men.    I  could  see  it  at  once  from  the  way  you  spoke." 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  133 

She  looked  up,  her  clear,  unconfused,  unquestioning  eyes  facing 
him. 

"  I  knew  my  father  well,"  she  said.  "  We  were  quite  alone  for 
years  together.    And  then  Uncle  Mathew " 

"  Oh,  your  father,  your  uncle,"  he  answered  quickly.     "  They 
don't  count.     What  I  mean  is  that  you  mustn't  think  men  are' 
scoundrels  just  because  they  act  badly.    I  swear  that  nine  out  of 
ten  of  them  never  mean  to  do  any  harm. 

"And  they  think  they're  speaking  the  truth  at  the  time.  But 
anything  '  does '  for  them  and  then  they're  in  a  mess,  and  all 
they  think  about  is  how  to  get  out  of  it.  Then  it's  every  man  for 
himself.  ..." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  I've  always  known  that  I'd  have  to  manage  for  myself,"  she 
said.  "  I've  never  expected  any  one  to  do  anything  for  me,  so 
I'm  not  likely  to  be  disappointed  now." 

He  moved  a  little  closer  to  her  and  held  her  hand  more  firmly; 
even  as  he  did  so  something  in  his  heart  reproached  him,  but  now 
the  reproach  was  very  far  away,  like  an  echo  of  some  earlier  voice. 

"  Do  you  know  you're  a  wonderful  girl  ? "  he  said.  "  I  knew 
you  were  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you.  You're  the  most 
independent  person  I've  ever  known.  You  can't  guess  how  I 
admire  that!  And  all  the  same  you're  not  happy,  are  you?  You 
want  to  get  out  of  it,  don't  you  ? " 

She  thought  for  a  little  while  before  she  nodded  her  head. 

"I  suppose  as  a  fact,"  she  said,  "I  do.  If  you  want  to  know 
— and  you  mustn't  tell  anybody — I've  posted  a  letter  to  a  lady 
whom  I  met  once  who  told  me  if  ever  I  wanted  anything  to  write 
to  her.  I've  asked  her  for  some  work.  I've  got  three  hundred 
pounds  of  my  own.  It  isn't  very  much,  I  know,  but  I  could  start 
on  it.  .  .  .1  don't  want  to  do  wrong  to  my  aunts,  who  are  very 
kind  to  me,  but  I'm  not  happy  there.  It  wouldn't  be  true  to  say 
I'm  happy.  You  see,"  she  dropped  her  voice  a  little,  "  they  want 
to  make  me  religious,  and  I've  had  so  much  of  that  with  father 
already.  I  feel  as  though  they  were  pressing  me  into  it  somehow, 
and  that  I  should  wake  up  one  morning  and  find  I  should  never 
escape  again.  There's  so  much  goes  on  that  I  don't  understand. 
And  it  isn't  only  the  chapel.  Aunt  Anne's  very  quiet,  but  she 
makes  you  feel  quite  helpless  sometimes.  And  perhaps  one  will  get 
more  and  more  helpless  the  longer  one  stays.  I  don't  want  to  be 
helpless  ever — nor  religious !  "  she  ended. 

"  Why,  that's  just  my  position,"  he  continued  eagerly.  "  I  came 
home  as  happily  as  anything.    I'd  almost  forgotten  all  that  had 


1.34  THE  CAPTIVES 

been  when  I  was  a  boy,  how  I  was  baptized  and  thought  I  be- 
longed to  God  and  was  so  proud  and  stuck  up.  That  all  seems 
nonsense  when  you're  roughing  it  with  other  men  who  think  about 
nothing  but  the  day's  work.  Then  I  came  home  meaning  to  settle 
down.  I  wanted  to  see  my  governor  too.  I've  always  cared  for 
him  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world  .  .  .  but  I  tell  you  now 
I  simply  don't  know  what's  going  on  at  home.  They  want  to 
catch  me  in  a  trap.  That's  what  it  feels  like.  To  make  me  what  I 
was  as  a  kid.  It's  strange,  but  there's  more  in  it  than  you'd  think. 
You  wouldn't  believe  the  number  of  times  I've  thought  of  my 
young  days  since  I've  been  home.  It's  as  though  some  one  was 
always  shoving  them  up  in  front  of  my  face.  All  I  want,  you 
know,  is  to  be  jolly.  To  let  other  people  alone  and  be  let  alone 
myself.  I  wouldn't  do  any  one  any  harm  in  the  world — I  wouldn't 
really.  But  it's  as  though  father  wanted  me  to  believe  all  the 
things  he  believes,  so  that  he  could  believe  them  more  himself. 
Perhaps  it's  the  same  with  your  aunt.  ..."  Then  he  added, 
"But  they're  sick  people.    That  explains  a  lot." 

"  Sick  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Yes.  My  governor's  got  heart — awfully  bad.  He  might  go  off 
at  any  moment  if  he  had  a  shock.  And  your  aunt — don't  you 
know?" 

"No,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Cancer.    They  all  say  so.    I  thought  you'd  have  known." 

"  Oh !  "  Maggie  drew  in  her  breath.  She  shuddered.  "  Poor 
Aunt  Anne !    Oh,  poor  Aunt  Anne !    I  didn't  know." 

She  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  confused  emotion.  A  love  for  her 
aunt,  desire  to  help  her,  and  at  the  same  time  shrinking  as  though 
she  saw  the  whole  house  which  had  been,  from  the  first,  unhappy 
to  her  was  now  diseased  and  evil  and  rotten.  The  hot  life  in  her 
body  told  her  against  her  moral  will  that  she  must  escape,  and 
her  soul,  moving  in  her  and  speaking  to  her,  told  her  that  now, 
more  than  ever,  she  must  stay. 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  Aunt  Anne,"  she  said  again. 

He  moved  and  put  his  arm  around  her.  He  had  meant  it  simply 
as  a  movement  of  sympathy  and  protection,  but  when  he  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  body  against  his,  when  he  realised  how  she  went 
to  him  at  once  with  the  confidence  and  simplicity  of  a  child, 
when  he  felt  the  hot  irregular  beat  of  her  heart,  his  own  heart 
leapt,  his  arm  was  strengthened  like  a  barrier  of  iron  against  the 
world. 

He  had  one  moment  of  desperate  resistance,  a  voice  of  protest 
calling  to  him  far,  far  away.     His  hand  touched  her  neck;  he 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  135 

raised  her  face  to  his  and  kissed  her,  once  gently,  kindly,  then, 
passionately  again  and  again. 

She  shivered  a  little,  as  though  surrendering  something  to  him, 
then  lay  quite  still  in  his  arms. 

"  Maggie !     Maggie !  "  he  whispered. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  herself  kissed  him. 

There  was  a  noise  on  the  door.  They  separated;  the  door 
opened  and  in  the  sudden  light  a  figure  was  visible  holding  a  glass. 

For  a  blind  instant  Maggie,  returning  from  her  other  world, 
thought  it  the  figure  of  Mr.  Palmer  of  Rugeley. 

It  was,  of  course,  Uncle  Mathew. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.   CRASHAW 

UNCLE  MATHEW  saw  Maggie  back  to  her  door,  kissed  her 
and  left  her.  On  their  way  home  he  did  not  once  mention 
Martin  Warlock  to  her. 

He  left  her  as  he  heard  the  bolt  turn  in  the  door,  hurrying  away 
as  though  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen.  Maggie  went  in  to  find 
old  Martha  with  her  crabbed  face  watching  her  sourly.  But  she 
did  not  care,  nothing  could  touch  her  now.  Even  the  old  woman, 
cross  with  waiting  by  the  fading  kitchen  fire,  noticed  the  light  in 
the  girl's  eyes.  She  had  always  thought  the  girl  hard  and  un- 
gracious, but  now  that  face  was  soft,  and  the  mouth  smiling  over 
its  secret  thoughts,  and  the  eyes  sleepy  with  happiness. 

Maggie  could  have  said:  "I'm  wild  with  joy,  Martha.  I  know 
what  love  is.  I  had  never  thought  that  it  could  be  like  this.  Be 
kind  to  me  because  it's  the  greatest  night  of  my  life." 

Martha  said :  "  There's  some  milk  hotted  for  you,  Miss,  and 
some  biscuits.    There  on  the  table  by  the  stairs." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  anything,  Martha,  thank  you !  " 

"  Your  aunt  said  you  was  to  have  it." 

Maggie  drank  it  down,  Martha  watching  her.  Then  she  went 
upstairs  softly,  as  though  her  joy  might  awaken  the  whole  house. 
She  lay  wide-eyed  on  her  bed  for  hours,  then  fell  into  a  heavy 
sleep,  deep,  without  dreams. 

When,  in  the  quieter  light  of  the  morning,  she  considered  the 
event,  she  had  no  doubts  nor  hesitations.  She  loved  Martin  and 
Martin  loved  her.  Soon  Martin  would  marry  her  and  they  would 
go  away.  Her  aunt  would  be  sorry  of  course,  and  his  father,  per- 
haps, would  be  angry,  but  the  sorrow  and  anger  would  be  only  for 
a  little  while.  Then  Martin  and  she  would  live  happily  together 
always — happily  because  they  were  both  sensible  people,  and  her 
own  standard  of  fidelity  and  trust  was,  she  supposed,  also  hi9. 
She  did  not  think  very  deeply  about  what  he  had  said  to  her;  it 
only  meant  that  he  wanted  to  escape  from  his  family,  a  desire  in 
which  she  could  completely  sympathise.  She  had  loved  him,  as  she 
now  saw,  from  the  first  moment  of  meeting,  and  she  would  love 
him  always.  She  would  never  be  alone  again,  and  although  Martin 
had  told  her  that  he  was  weak,  and  she  knew  something  about 

136 


MR.  CRASHAW  137 

men,  she  was  aware  that  their  love  for  one  another  would  be  a 
thing  apart,  constant,  unfaltering,  eternal.  She  had  read  no 
modern  fiction;  she  knew  nothing  about  psychology:  she  was 
absolutely  happy.  .    .   . 

And  then  in  that  very  first  day  she  discovered  that  life  was  not 
quite  so  simple.  In  the  first  place,  she  wanted  Martin  desperately 
and  he  did  not  come;  and  although  she  had  at  once  a  thousand 
sensible  reasons  for  the  impossibility  of  his  coming,  nevertheless 
strange  new  troubles  and  suspicions  that  she  had  never  known 
before  rose  in  her  heart.  She  had  only  kissed  him  once;  he  had 
only  held  her  in  his  arms  for  a  few  moments.  .  .  .  She  waited, 
looking  from  behind  the  drawing-room  curtains  out  into  the 
street.  How  could  he  let  the  whole  day  go  by?  He  was  pre- 
vented, perhaps,  by  that  horrible  sister  of  his.  When  the  dusk 
came  and  the  muffin-man  went  ringing  his  bell  down  the  street 
she  felt  exhausted  as  though  she  had  been  running  for  miles.  .  .  . 

Then  with  sudden  guilty  realisation  of  the  absorption  that  had 
held  her  all  day  she  wondered  how  much  her  aunt  had  noticed. 

During  the  afternoon  when  she  had  been  watching  the  streets 
from  behind  the  curtain  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  sat  sewing,  Thomas 
the  cat  lumped  before  the  fire,  the  whole  room  bathed  in  afternoon 
silence.  Maggie  had  watched  as  though  hypnotized  by  the  street 
itself,  marking  the  long  squares  of  light,  the  pools  of  shadow, 
the  lamp-posts,  the  public-house  at  the  corner,  the  little  grocer's 
shop  with  cases  of  oranges  piled  outside  the  door,  the  windows  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  dressmaker's,  through  which  you  could  see 
a  dummy-figure  and  a  young  woman  with  a  pale  face  and  shiny 
black  hair,  who  came  and  glanced  out  once  and  again,  as  though 
to  reassure  herself  that  the  gay  world  was  still  there. 

The  people,  the  horses  and  carts,  the  cabs  went  on  their  way. 
Often  it  seemed  that  this  figure  must  be  Martin's — now  this — now 
this.  .  .  .  And  on  every  occasion  Maggie's  heart  rose  in  her 
breast,  hammered  at  her  eyes,  then  sank  again.  Over  and  over 
she  told  to  herself  every  incident  of  yesterday's  meeting.  Always 
it  ended  in  that  same  wonderful  climax  when  she  was  caught  to  his 
breast  and  felt  his  hand  at  her  neck  and  then  his  mouth  upon  hers. 
She  could  still  feel  against  her  skin  the  rough  warm  stuff  of  his 
coat  and  the  soft  roughness  of  his  cheek  and  the  stiff  roughness 
of  his  hair.  She  could  still  feel  how  his  mouth  had  just  touched 
hers  and  then  suddenly  gripped  it  as  though  it  would  never  let  it 
go;  then  she  had  been  absorbed  by  him,  into  his  very  heart,  so 
that  still  now  she  felt  as  though  with  his  strong  arms  and  his  hard 
firm  body  he  was  around  her  and  about  her. 


138  THE  CAPTIVES 

Oh,  she  loved  him!  she  loved  him!  but  why  did  he  not  come? 
Had  he  been  able  only  to  pass  down  the  street  and  smile  up  to  her 
window  as  he  went  that  would  have  been  something.  It  would  at 
least  have  reassured  her  that  yesterday  was  not  a  dream,  an  in- 
vention, and  that  he  was  still  there  and  thought  of  her  and  cared 
for  her.  .    .   . 

She  pulled  herself  together.  At  the  sound  of  the  muffin-man's 
bell  she  came  back  into  her  proper  world.  She  would  be  patient; 
as  she  had  once  resolved  outside  Borhedden  Farm,  so  now  she 
swore  that  she  would  owe  nothing  to  any  man. 

If  she  should  love  Martin  Warlock  it  would  not  be  for  anything 
that  she  expected  to  get  from  him,  but  only  for  the  love  that  she 
had  it  in  her  to  give.  If  good  came  of  it,  well,  if  not,  she  was 
still  her  own  master. 

But  more  than  ever  now  was  it  impossible  to  be  open  with  her 
aunts.  How  strange  it  was  that  from  the  very  beginning  there 
had  been  concealments  between  Aunt  Anne  and  herself.  Perhaps 
if  they  had  been  open  to  one  another  at  the  first  all  would  have 
been  well.     Now  it  was  too  late. 

Tea  came  in,  and,  with  tea,  Aunt  Anne.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  day  that  Maggie  had  seen  her,  and  now,  conscious  of  the  news 
that  Martin  had  given  her,  she  felt  a  movement  of  sympathy,  of 
pity  and  affection.  Aunt  Anne  had  been  in  her  room  all  day, 
and  she  seemed  as  she  walked  slowly  to  the  fire  to  be  of  a  finer 
pallor,  a  more  slender  body  than  ever.  Maggie  felt  as  though  she 
could  see  the  firelight  through  her  body,  and  with  that  came  also 
the  conviction  that  Aunt  Anne  knew  everything,  knew  about 
Martin  and  the  posted  letter  and  the  thoughts  of  escape.  Maggie 
herself  was  tired  with  the  trial  of  her  waiting  day,  she  was  ex- 
hausted and  was  beating,  with  all  her  resolve,  against  a  disappoint- 
ment that  hammered  with  a  thundering  noise,  somewhere  far 
away  in  the  recesses  of  her  soul.  So  they  all  drew  around  the 
fire  and  had  their  tea. 

Aunt  Anne,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  beautiful  hands 
stretched  out  on  the  arms,  a  fine  white  shawl  spread  on  her  knees, 
asked  Maggie  about  last  night. 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself,  dear." 

"  Very  much,  Aunt  Anne.    Uncle  Mathew  was  very  kind." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

Maggie  flushed.  It  was  deceit  and  lies  now  all  the  time,  and 
oh!  how  she  hated  lies!    But  she  went  on: 

"  Do  you  know,  Aunt  Anne,  I  think  Uncle  Mathew  is  so  changed. 
He's  younger  and  everything.     He  talked  quite  differently  last 


MR.  CRASHAW  139 

night,  about  his  business  and  all  that  he's  doing.  He's  got  his 
money  in  malt  now,  he  says." 

"  Whose  money  ? "  asked  Aunt  Anne. 

"  His  own,  he  says.  I  never  knew  he  had  any.  But  he  saya 
yes,  it's  in  malt.    It's  not  a  nice  hotel,  though,  where  he  lives." 

"Not  nice,  dear?" 

"No,  I  didn't  like  it.    But  it's  only  for  men  really  of  course." 

"I  think  he'd  better  take  you  somewhere  else  next  time.  I'll 
speak  to  him.  By  the  way,  Maggie  dear,  Martha  tells  me  you  went 
out  yesterday  afternoon  all  alone — into  the  Strand.  I  think  it 
would  be  better  if  you  were  to  tell  us." 

Maggie's  cheeks  were  hot.    She  set  back  her  shoulders. 

"  How  does  Martha  know  ? "  she  asked  quickly.  "  I  only  went 
for  a  moment — only  for  a  little  walk.  But  I'm  grown  up,  Aunt 
Anne.  Surely  I  can  go  out  by  myself  if  .  .  ."  she  stopped,  look- 
ing away  from  them  into  the  fire. 

"  It  isn't  that,  dear,"  Aunt  Anne  said  very  gently.  "  It's  only 
that  you've  been  so  little  a  time  in  London  that  you  can't  know 
your  way  about  yet.  And  London's  a  strange  place.  It  might  be 
unpleasant  for  you  alone.    I'd  rather  that  you  told  us  first." 

Then  Maggie  delivered  her  challenge. 

"  But,  aunt,  I  won't  be  always  here.  I'm  going  off  to  earn  my 
living  soon,  aren't  I  ? " 

Aunt  Elizabeth  drew  her  breath  in  sharply.  Aunt  Anne  said 
quietly : 

"  You  are  free,  dear,  quite  free.  But  whilst  I  am  not  quite 
myself — I  don't  want  to  be  selfish,  dear — but  you  are  a  great  com- 
fort to  us,  and  when  I  am  stronger  certainly  you  shall  go  .  .  . 
even  now  if  you  wish,  of  course  .    .   .  but  my  illness." 

Even  as  she  spoke — and  it  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever 
mentioned  her  illness — she  caught  at  her  breast  and  pressed  her 
hand  there  as  though  she  were  in  great  pain.  Maggie  sprang  to 
her  side.  She  caught  the  girl's  hand  with  hers  and  held  her. 
Maggie  could  feel  her  swift  agonized  breathing.  Then  with  a  little 
sigh  the  moment  had  passed.  Maggie  still  knelt  there  looking  up 
into  her  aunt's  face. 

Martha's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Mr.  Martin  Warlock,  Miss.    Could  you  see  him?  .   .   ." 

"  Yes,  Martha,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  her  voice  calm  and  controlled. 
"Ask  him  to  come  up." 

She  had  abandoned  so  completely  any  idea  that  he  might  still 
come  that  she  could  not  now  feel  that  it  was  he.  She  withdrew 
from  her  aunt's  side  and  stood  in  the  shadow  against  the  walk 


140  THE  CAPTIVES 

Although  her  heart  beat  wildly  her  whole  mind  was  bent  upon 
composure,  upon  showing  nothing  to  her  aunts,  and  on  behaving 
to  him  as  though  she  scarcely  knew  him,  but  so  soon  as  he  entered 
the  room  some  voice  cried  in  her :  "  He  is  mine !  He  is  mine ! " 
She  did  not  stir  from  her  wall,  but  her  eyes  fastened  upon  him 
and  then  did  not  move.  He  was  wearing  the  same  clothes  as 
yesterday;  his  tie  was  different,  it  had  been  black  and  now  it  was 
dark  blue.  He  looked  quiet  and  self-possessed  and  at  his  ease. 
His  rough  stiff  hair  was  carelessly  brushed  as  always ;  good-humour 
shone  from  his  eyes,  he  smiled,  his  walk  had  the  sturdy  broad 
strength  of  a  man  who  is  absolutely  sure  of  himself  but  is  not 
conceited.    He  seemed  to  have  no  trouble  in  the  world. 

He  greeted  the  aunts,  then  shook  hands  with  Maggie.  He  gave 
her  one  glance  and  she,  suddenly  feeling  that  that  glance  had  not 
the  things  in  it  that  she  had  wanted,  was  frightened,  her  confidence 
left  her,  she  felt  that  if  she  did  not  have  a  word  alone  with  him 
she  would  die. 

He  sat  down  near  Aunt  Anne. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  won't  have  any  tea,"  he  said.  "  We're  dining 
very  early  to-night  because  Father  and  Amy  have  a  meeting  right 
away  over  Golders  Green  way  somewhere.  It's  really  on  a  message 
from  him  that  I  came." 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  placed  like  a  square  shadow  against  the 
dusky  wall.  He  sat,  leaning  forward  a  little,  his  red-brown  hand 
on  his  knee,  his  leg  bulging  under  the  cloth  of  his  trouser,  his  neck 
struggling  behind  his  collar — but  his  smile  was  pleasant  and  easy, 
he  seemed  perfectly  at  home. 

"  My  father  wonders  whether  you  will  mind  some  friends  of  Miss 
Avies  sitting  with  you  in  your  pew  to-morrow  evening.  She  has 
especially  asked — two  of  them  .  .  .  ladies,  I  believe.  But  it 
seems  that  there  will  be  something  of  a  crowd,  and  as  your  pew 

is  always  half  empty He  would  not  have  asked  except  that 

there  seems  nowhere  else." 

Aunt  Anne  graciously  assented. 

"But,  of  course,  Mr.  Warlock,  Maggie  will  be  going  with  us, 
but  still  there  will  be  room.  Mr.  Crashaw  is  going  to  speak  after 
all,  I  hear.    I  was  afraid  that  he  would  have  been  too  ill." 

Martin  laughed.  "  He  is  staying  with  us,  you  know,  and  already 
he  is  preparing  himself.  He's  about  the  oldest  human  being  I've 
ever  seen.     He  must  be  a  hundred." 

"  He's  a  great  saint,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"He's  always  in  a  terrible  temper  though,"  said  Martin.  "He 
mutters  to  himself — and  he  eats  nothing.     His  room  is  next  to 


MR.  CRASHAW  141 

mine,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  all  night  talking.  I  don't  know 
how  he  keeps  alive." 

Perhaps  Aunt  Anne  thought  Martin's  tone  irreverent.  She 
relapsed  into  herself  and  seemed  suddenly,  with  a  spiritual  wave 
of  the  hand,  to  have  dismissed  the  whole  company. 

Martin  took  his  leave.  He  barely  touched  Maggie's  hand,  but 
his  eyes  leapt  upon  hers  with  all  the  fire  of  a  greeting  too  long 
delayed.  His  lips  did  not  move,  but  she  heard  the  whisper  "  Soon ! " 
Then  he  was  gone. 

Soon!  She  felt  as  though  she  could  not  wait  another  instant 
but  must  immediately  run  after  him,  follow  him  into  the  street, 
and  make  clear  his  plans  both  for  himself  and  her. 

Then,  continuing  her  struggle  of  the  long  day,  she  beat  into 
herself  endurance;  she  was  in  a  new  world,  in  a  world  with  road9 
and  cities,  mountains,  rivers,  seas  and  forests  that  had  to  be 
traversed  by  her,  to  be  learnt  and  remembered  and  conquered,  and 
for  the  success  of  this  she  must  have  her  own  spirit  absolutely 
aloof  and  firm  and  brave.  She  loved  him.  That  must  be  enough 
for  her,  and  meanwhile  she  need  not  lose  her  common  sense  and 
vision  of  everyday  life.  .  .  .  But  meanwhile  it  hurt.  She  was 
now  twice  as  lonely  as  she  had  been  before  because  she  did  not 
know  what  he  intended  to  do,  and  always  with  her  now  there  was 
something  strange  and  unknown  that  might  at  any  moment  be 
stronger  than  she. 

But  by  next  morning  she  had  conquered  herself.  She  would  see 
him  at  Chapel  that  night  and  perhaps  have  a  word  with  him,  and 
so  already  she  had  arrived  at  her  now  lover's  calendar  of  dates  and 
seasons.  There  was  the  time  before  she  would  see  him  and  the 
time  after — no  other  time  than  that. 

The  trouble  that  weighed  upon  her  most  heavily  was  her  deceit- 
fulness  to  the  aunts.  Fifty  times  that  day  she  was  on  the  edge 
of  speaking  and  telling  them  all,  but  she  was  held  back  by  the 
vagueness  of  her  relations  to  Martin.  Were  they  engaged?  Did 
he  even  love  her?  He  had  only  kissed  her.  He  had  said  nothing. 
No,  she  must  wait,  but  with  this  definite  sense  of  her  wickedness 
weighing  upon  her — not  wickedness  to  herself,  for  that  she  cared 
nothing,  but  wickedness  to  them — she  tried,  on  this  day,  to  be  a 
pattern  member  of  the  household,  going  softly  everywhere  that 
she  was  told,  closing  doors  behind  her,  being  punctual  and  careful. 
Unhappily  it  was  a  day  of  misfortune,  it  was  one  of  Aunt  Anne's 
more  worldly  hours  and  she  thought  that  she  would  spend  it  in 
training  Maggie.  Very  good — but  Maggie  dropped  a  glass  into 
which  flowers  were  to  have  been  put,  she  shook  her  pen  when  she 


142  THE  CAPTIVES 

was  addressing  some  envelopes  so  that  some  drops  of  ink  were 
scattered  upon  the  carpet,  and,  in  her  haste  to  be  punctual,  she 
banged  her  bedroom  door  so  loudly  that  Aunt  Anne  was  waked 
from  her  afternoon  nap. 

A  scene  followed.  Aunt  Anne  showed  herself  very  human,  like 
any  other  aunt  justly  exasperated  by  any  other  niece. 

"I  sometimes  despair  of  you,  Maggie.  You  will  not  think  of 
others.  I  don't  wish  to  be  hard  or  unjust,  but  selfishness  is  the 
name  of  your  greatest  weakness." 

Maggie,  standing  with  her  hands  behind  her,  a  spot  of  ink  on 
her  nose  and  her  short  hair  ruffled,  was  hard  and  unrepentant. 

"  You  must  send  me  away,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  not  a  success  here. 
You  don't  like  me." 

Aunt  Anne  looked  at  Maggie  with  eyes  that  were  clear  and  cold 
like  deep  unfriendly  waters.  "  You  mustn't  say  that.  We  love 
you,  but  you  have  very  much  to  learn.  To-night  I  shall  speak 
to  Miss  Avies  and  arrange  that  you  go  to  have  a  talk  with  her 
sometimes.  She  is  a  wise  woman  who  knows  many  things.  My 
sister  and  I  are  not  strong  enough  to  deal  with  you,  and  we  are 
weakened  perhaps  by  our  love  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to-night,"  Maggie  said,  then  she  burst  out : 
u  Oh,  can't  I  lead  an  ordinary  life  like  other  girls — be  free  and 
find  things  out  for  myself,  not  only  go  by  what  older  people  tell 
me — earn  my  living  and  be  free?  I've  never  lived  an  ordinary 
life.    Life  with  Father  wasn't  fair,  and  now " 

Aunt  Anne  put  out  her  arm  and  drew  her  towards  her.  "  Poor 
Maggie.  .  .  .  Aren't  you  unfair  to  us?  Do  you  suppose  really 
that  we  don't  love  you?  Do  you  think  that  I  don't  understand? 
You  shall  be  free,  afterwards,  if  you  wish — perfectly  free — but  you 
must  have  the  opportunity  of  learning  what  this  life  is  first,  what 
the  love  of  God  is,  what  the  companionship  of  Him  is.  If  after 
you  have  seen  you  still  reject  it,  we  will  not  try  to  keep  you.  But 
it  is  God's  will  that  you  stay  with  us  for  a  time." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  God's  will  ? "  asked  Maggie,  melted 
nevertheless,  as  she  always  was  by  any  sign  of  affection. 

"He  has  told  me,"  Aunt  Anne  answered,  and  then  closed  her 
eyes. 

Maggie  went  away  with  a  sensation  of  being  tracked  by  some 
stealthy  mysterious  force  that  was  creeping  ever  closer  and  closer 
upon  her,  that  she  could  only  feel  but  not  see.  For  instance,  she 
might  have  said  that  she  would  not  go  to  Chapel  to-night,  and  she 
might  have  taken  her  stand  upon  that.  And  yet  she  could  not 
say  that.     Of  course  she  must  go  because  she  must  see  Martin, 


MR.  CRASHAW  143 

but  even  if  she  had  known  that  he  would  not  be  there  she  would 
have  gone.  Was  it  curiosity?  Was  it  reminiscence?  Was  it 
superstition?  Was  it  cowardice?  Was  it  loneliness?  All  these 
things,  perhaps,  and  yet  something  more  than  they.  .    .    . 

All  through  the  afternoon  of  the  lovely  November  day  she  antici- 
pated that  evening's  services  as  though  it  were  in  some  way  to  be 
a  climax.  She  knew  that  it  was  to  be  for  all  of  them  an  especial 
affair.  She  had  heard  during  the  last  days  much  discussion  of  old 
Mr.  Crashaw.  He  was  an  old  man  with,  apparently,  a  wonderful 
history  of  conversions  behind  him.  His  conversions  had  been,  it 
seemed,  of  the  forcible  kind,  seizing  people  by  the  neck  and  shov- 
ing them  in;  he  was  a  fierce  and  militant  kind  of  saint;  he  be- 
lieved, it  seemed,  in  damnation  and  eternal  hell  fire,  and  could 
make  you  believe  in  them  too ;  his  accent  was  on  the  tortures  rather 
than  the  triumphs  of  religion. 

But  Maggie  had  other  thoughts,  in  this,  outside  Mr.  Crashaw. 
She  had  never  lost  the  force  of  that  first  meeting  with  Mr.  War- 
lock; she  had  avoided  him  simply  because  she  was  afraid  lest  he 
should  influence  her  too  much,  but  now  after  her  friendship  with 
Martin  she  felt  that  she  could  never  meet  old  Mr.  Warlock  frankly 
again.  What  he  would  say  to  her  if  he  knew  that  she  meant  to 
take  his  son  away  from  him  she  knew  well  enough.  On  every 
side  there  was  trouble  and  difficulty.  She  could  not  see  a  friend 
anywhere  unless  it  was  Caroline,  whom  she  did  not  completely 
trust,  and  Mr.  Magnus,  whom  her  deception  of  her  aunt  would, 
she  knew,  most  deeply  distress.  Meanwhile  she  was  being  pushed 
forward  more  and  more  into  the  especial  religious  atmosphere  of 
the  house,  the  Chapel  and  the  Chapel  sect.  Of  no  use  to  tell  her- 
self that  this  was  only  a  tiny  fragment  of  the  whole  world,  that 
there,  only  five  yards  away  from  her,  in  the  Strand,  was  a  life 
that  swept  past  the  Chapel  and  its  worshippers  with  the  utmost, 
completest  indifference.  She  had  always  this  feeling  that  she  was 
caught,  that  she  could  only  escape  by  a  desperate  violent  effort 
that  would  hurt  others  and  perhaps  be,  for  herself,  a  lasting  re- 
proach. She  wanted  so  simple  a  thing  .  .  .  to  be  always  with 
Martin,  working,  with  all  this  confusing,  baffling,  mysterious  re- 
ligion behind  her;  this  simple  thing  seemed  incredibly  difficult  of 
attainment. 

Nevertheless,  when  they  started  that  evening  for  the  Chapel  she 
frit,  in  spite  of  herself,  a  strange  almost  pleasurable  excitement. 
There  was,  in  that  plain,  ugly  building  some  force  that  could  not 
be  denied.  Was  it  the  force  of  the  worshippers'  belief?  Was  it  the 
force  of  some  outside  power  that  watched  ironically  the  efforts  of 


144  THE  CAPTIVES 

those  poor  human  beings  to  discover  it?  Was  it  the  love  of  a 
father  for  his  children?  No,  there  was  very  little  love  in  this 
creed — no  more  than  there  had  been  in  her  father's  creed  before. 
As  she  walked  along  between  her  aunts  her  brain  was  a  curious 
jumble  of  religion,  Martin,  and  how  she  was  ever  going  to  learn  to 
be  tidy  and  punctual. 

"  Well,  I  won't  care,"  was  the  resolution  with  which  she  always 
brought  to  an  end  her  discussions  and  misgivings.  "  I'm  myself. 
Nobody  can  touch  me  unless  I  let  them." 

It  was  a  most  lovely  evening,  very  pale  and  clear  with  an  orange 
light  in  the  sky  like  the  reflection  of  some  far  distant  towering 
fire.  The  air  was  still  and  the  rumble  of  the  town  scarcely  pene- 
trated into  their  street;  they  could  hear  the  ugly  voice  of  the  little 
Chapel  bell  jangling  in  the  heart  of  the  houses,  there  was  a  scent 
of  chrysanthemums  from  somewhere  and  a  very  faint  suggestion 
of  snow — even  before  they  reached  the  Chapel  door  a  few  flakes 
lazily  began  to  fall. 

Maggie  was  thinking  now  only  of  Martin.  There  was  a  gas- 
lamp  already  lighted  in  the  Chapel  doorway,  and  this  blinded  her 
eyes.  She  had  hoped  that  he  would  be  there,  waiting,  so  that  he 
might  have  a  word  with  her  before  they  went  in,  but  when  they 
were  all  gathered  together  under  the  porch  she  saw  with  a  throb 
of  disappointment  that  he  was  not  there.  She  saw  no  one  whom 
she  knew,  but  it  struck  her  at  once  that  here  was  a  gathering  quite 
different  from  that  of  the  first  time  that  she  had  come  to  the 
Chapel.  There  seemed  to  be  more  of  the  servant  class ;  rather  they 
were  older  women  with  serious  rapt  expressions  and  very  silent. 
There  were  men  too,  to-night,  four  or  five  gathered  together  inside 
the  passage,  standing  gravely,  without  a  word,  not  moving,  like 
statues.  Maggie  was  frightened.  She  felt  like  a  spy  in  an  enemy's 
camp,  and  a  spy  waiting  for  an  inevitable  detection,  with  no  hope 
of  securing  any  news.  As  she  went  up  the  aisle  behind  her  aunts 
her  eyes  searched  for  Martin.  She  could  not  see  him.  Their  seat 
was  close  to  the  front,  and  already  seated  in  it  were  the  austere 
Miss  Avies  and  two  lady  friends. 

Maggie  was  maliciously  pleased  to  observe  that  Miss  Avies  had 
not  expected  these  additions  to  her  number  and  was  now  in  danger 
of  an  uncomfortable  squashing;  there  was,  indeed,  a  polite  little 
struggle  between  Miss  Avies  and  Aunt  Anne  as  to  who  should  have 
the  corner  with  a  wooden  arm  upon  which  to  rest.  Miss  Avies* 
two  friends,  huddled  and  frightened  like  fledglings  suddenly  sur- 
prised by  a  cuckoo,  stirred  Maggie's  sympathy.  She  disliked  Miss 
Avies  from  the  very  first  moment.    Miss  Avies  had  a  pale,  thin,. 


MR.  CRASHAW  145 

pointed  face  with  no  eyebrows,  grey  eyes  dim  and  short-sighted, 
and  fair  colourless  hair  brushed  straight  back  under  a  hard,  ugly 
black  hat. 

At  the  same  time  she  was  nervous,  emotional,  restless;  some- 
thing about  her  was  always  moving — her  lips,  her  hands,  her  shoul- 
ders, her  eyes.  She  was  fierce  and  hostile  and  ineffectual,  one  felt, 
so  long  as  she  was  by  herself.  Maggie  did  not,  of  course,  notice 
all  this  at  the  time,  but  in  after  years  she  always  looked  back  on 
the  pale,  thin,  highly-strung  Miss  Avies  as  the  motive  of  most  of 
the  events  that  followed  this  particular  evening.  It  was  as  though 
she  felt  that  Miss  Avies'  weight,  not  enough  in  itself  to  effect  any 
result,  when  thrown  into  the  balance  just  turned  everything  in  one 
direction.    It  had  that  result,  at  any  rate,  upon  Maggie  herself. 

She  soon  lost,  however,  consideration  of  Miss  Avies  in  the  wider 
observation  of  the  Chapel  and  its  congregation.  It  was,  as  it  had 
been  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  to  it,  stuffy,  smelling  of  gas 
and  brick  and  painted  wood,  ugly  in  its  bareness  and  unresponsive- 
ness— and,  nevertheless,  exciting.  The  interior  of  the  building  had 
the  air  of  one  who  has  watched  some  most  unusual  happenings  and 
expects  very  shortly  to  watch  them  again.  Even  the  harmonium 
seemed  to  prick  up  its  wooden  ears  in  anticipation.  And  to-night 
the  congregation  thrilled  also  with  breathless  expectation.  As 
Maggie  looked  round  upon  them  she  could  see  that  they  were 
throbbing  with  the  anticipation  of  some  almost  sensuous  delight. 
By  now  they  had  filled  the  Chapel  to  its  utmost  limits,  but  there 
was  not  one  human  being  there  who  did  not  seem  to  have  the 
appearance  of  having  been  especially  selected  from  other  less  inter- 
esting human  beings.  It  was  not  that  the  forces  that  surrounded 
her  were  especially  interesting,  but  she  felt  that  all  of  them  had 
taken  on  some  especial  dramatic  character  from  the  occasion. 
Such  personalities  as  Aunt  Anne  and  Miss  Avies  were  in  any  case 
vivid  and  dramatic,  but  to-night  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  the  placidly 
rotund  Mrs.  Smith,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  row  with  her 
mouth  open,  and  simple  little  Miss  Pyncheon,  Aunt  Anne's  friend, 
were  remarkable  and  exceptional. 

Then  suddenly  Maggie  caught  sight  of  Martin.  He  was  sitting 
in  the  extreme  right  next  the  wall ;  his  ill-tempered  sister  was  next 
to  him.  Maggie  could  only  see  his  head  and  shoulders,  but  she 
realised  at  once  that  he  had  been,  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  catch 
her  eye.  He  smiled  at  her  an  intimate  peculiar  smile  that  sent 
the  blood  flooding  to  her  face  and  made  her  heart  beat  with  happi- 
ness. At  the  moment  of  her  smiling  she  realised  that  Miss  Avies: 
dim  eye  was  upon  her.    What  right  had  Miss  Avies  to  watch  over 


146  THE  CAPTIVES 

her?  She  set  back  her  shoulders,  sat  up  stiffly,  and  tried  to  look 
as  old  as  she  might — that  was  not,  unhappily,  very  old.  That 
smile  exchanged  with  Martin  had  made  her  happy  for  ever.  Miss 
Avies  was  of  less  than  no  importance  at  all.  .    .    . 

The  little  bell  ceased  its  jangling,  the  harmonium  began  a 
quavering  prelude,  and  from  a  door  at  the  back,  behind  the  little 
platform  and  desk,  three  men  entered :  first  Mr.  Thurston ;  then  a 
little  crooked  man  who  must,  Maggie  knew,  be  Mr.  Crashaw; 
finally,  in  magnificent  contrast,  Mr.  Warlock.  A  quiver  of  emotion 
passed  over  the  Chapel — there  was  then  a  hushed  expectant  pause. 

"  Brothers  and  sisters,  let  us  pray,"  said  Mr.  Thurston. 

Maggie  had  not  seen  him  before;  she  wondered  what  strange 
chance  had  led  him  and  Mr.  Warlock  to  work  together.  In  every 
movement  of  the  body,  in  every  tone  of  the  voice,  Thurston  showed 
the  professional  actor — his  thoughts  were  all  upon  himself  and  the 
effect  that  he  was  making.  So  calculated  was  he  in  his  attitude 
that  his  eyes  betrayed  him,  having  in  their  gleam  other  thoughts, 
other  intentions  very  far  away  from  his  immediate  business  in  the 
Chapel.  Maggie,  watching  him,  wondered  what  those  thoughts 
were.  His  voice  was  ugly,  as  were  all  his  movements;  his  sharp 
actor's  face,  with  the  long  rather  dirty  black  hair,  the  hooked  nose, 
the  long  dirty  fingers  which  moved  in  and  out  as  though  they 
worked  of  themselves — all  these  things  were  false  and  unmoving. 
But  behind  his  harsh  voice,  gross  accent  and  melodramatic  tone 
there  was  some  power,  the  power  of  a  man  ambitious,  ruthless, 
scornful,  self-confident.  He  did  not  care  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for 
his  congregation,  he  laughed  at  their  beliefs,  he  made  use  of  their 
credulity. 

"  Oh  God,"  he  prayed,  his  voice  now  shrill  and  quivering  and 
just  out  of  tune,  so  that  it  jarred  every  nerve  in  Maggie's  body, 
"Thou  seest  what  we  are,  miserable  sinners  not  worthy  of  Thy 
care  or  goodness,  sunk  deep  in  the  mire  of  evil  living  and  evil 
'abits,  nevertheless,  oh  God,  we,  knowing  Thy  loving  'eart  towards 
Thy  sinful  servants,  do  pray  Thee  that  Thou  wilt  give  us  Thy 
blessing  before  we  leave  this  Thy  'ouse  this  night;  a  new  contrite 
'eart  is  what  we  beg  of  Thee,  that  we  may  go  out  into  this  evil 
world  taught  by  Thee  to  search  out  our  ways  and  improve  our 
thoughts,  caring  for  nothing  but  Thee,  following  in  Thy  footsteps 
and  making  ready  for  Thy  immediate  Coming,  which  will  be  in 
Thine  own  good  time  and  according  to  Thy  will. 

"  This  we  pray  for  the  sake  of  Thy  dear  Son,  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  who  died  for  our  sins  upon  the  bloody  Cross. 

"  Amen." 


MR.  CRASHAW  147 

From  between  her  hands  Maggie  watched  those  two  strange  eyes 
wandering  about  the  Chapel,  picking  up  here  a  person,  there  a 
person,  wondering  over  this,  wondering  over  that,  and  always,  in 
the  end,  concerned  not  about  these  things  at  all  but  about  some 
other  more  ultimate  loneliness,  fear  or  expectation,  something  that 
set  him  apart  and  made  him,  as  are  all  men  in  the  final  recesses  of 
their  spirit,  as  lonely  as  though  he  were  by  himself  on  a  desert 
island. 

The  thrill  of  anticipation  faded  through  the  Chapel  as  Thurston 
continued  his  prayer.  He  had  not  to-night,  at  any  rate,  power  over 
his  audience — the  thing  that  they  were  waiting  for  was  something 
that  he  could  not  satisfy.  A  restlessness  was  abroad;  coughing 
broke  out  once,  twice,  then  everywhere;  chairs  creaked,  sighs  could 
be  heard,  some  one  moved  to  the  door.  Thurston  seemed  to  realise 
his  failure;  with  a  sudden  snap  of  impatience  he  brought  prayer 
to  an  end  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  We  will  sing,"  he  said,  "  No.  341.  <  Bathed  in  the  blood  of  the 
Lamb.'" 

The  singing  of  the  hymn  roused  the  excitement  of  the  congre- 
gation to  even  more  than  its  earlier  pitch.  The  tune  was  a  moving 
one,  beginning  very  softly,  beseeching  God  to  listen,  then,  more 
confident,  rising  to  a  high  note  of  appeal : 

By  all  Thy  sores  and  bloody  pain 
Come  down  and  heal  our  sins  again ; 

falling,  after  that,  to  a  note  of  confidence  and  security  in  the  last 
refrain : 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beseech  Thee 

In  spite  of  the  crudity  of  the  words  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
tune  Maggie  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  whole  Chapel  was  singing 
now,  singing  as  though  the  sins  of  the  world  could  be  redeemed 
only  by  the  force  and  power  of  this  especial  moment.  Maggie  was 
caught  up  with  the  rest.  She  found  herself  singing  parts  of  the 
second  verse,  then  in  the  third  she  was  carried  away,  had  forgotten 
herself,  her  surroundings,  even  Martin.  There  was  something  real 
in  this,  something  beyond  the  ugliness  of  the  Chapel  and  its  con- 
gregation. She  remembered  what  Mr.  Magnus  had  said:  "If 
there's  something  of  great  value,  don't  think  the  less  of  it  because 
the  people,  including  yourself,  who  admire  it,  aren't  worth  very 
much.    Why  should  they  be?" 


148  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  looked  for  a  moment  at  Aunt  Anne  and  saw  her  in  an 
ecstasy,  singing  in  her  cracked  tuneless  voice,  a  smile  about  her 
lips  and  in  her  eyes,  that  gazed  far,  far  beyond  that  Chapel. 
Maggie  felt  the  approach  of  tears;  she  stopped  singing — softly  the 
refrain  of  the  last  verse  came: 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beseech  Thee! 

The  hymn  over,  Mr.  Warlock  read  the  Bible  and  then  offered  up 
a  long  extempore  prayer.  Strangely  enough  Mr.  Warlock  brought 
Maggie  back  to  reality — strangely  because,  on  an  earlier  occasion, 
he  had  done  exactly  the  opposite.  She  realised  at  once  that  he 
was  not  happy  to-night.  Before,  he  had  been  himself  caught  up 
into  the  mood  that  held  the  Chapel;  to-night  he  was  fight- 
ing against  a  mood  that  was  then  outside  him,  a  mood  with 
which  he  did  not  sympathise  and  in  which  he  could  not  be- 
lieve. 

She  saw  that  he  was  unhappy,  he  spoke  slowly,  without  the 
spontaneity  and  force  that  he  had  used  before;  once  he  made  a 
long  pause  and  you  could  feel  throughout  the  Chapel  a  wave  of 
nervous  apprehension,  as  though  every  one  were  waiting  to  see 
whether  he  would  fight  his  way  through  or  not.  Maggie  felt  her 
earlier  emotion  sentimental  and  false,  it  was  as  though  he  had 
said  to  her:  "But  that's  not  the  true  thing;  that's  cheap  sham 
emotion.  That's  what  they're  trying  to  turn  our  great  reality  into. 
I'm  fighting  them  and  you  must  help  me." 

He  was  fighting  them.  She  could  imagine  Mr.  Thurston's  scorn- 
ful lip,  hidden  now  by  his  hands.  As  Mr.  Warlock  went  on  with 
his  dignified  sentences,  his  restraint  and  his  reverence,  she  could 
fancy  how  Thurston  was  saying  to  himself :  "  But  what's  the  good 
of  this  ?  It's  blood  and  thunder  we  want.  The  old  feller's  getting 
past  his  work.    He  must  go." 

But  it  was  Mr.  Warlock's  reality  of  which  she  was  afraid.  As 
he  continued  his  prayer  she  felt  all  her  old  terror  return,  that 
terror  that  she  had  known  on  the  night  her  father  died,  during 
the  hours  that  she  had  watched  beside  his  dead  body,  at  the 
moment  when  she  had  first  arrived  at  the  house  in  London,  during 
her  first  visit  to  the  Chapel,  when  she  had  said  good-night  to  her 
aunt  before  going  out  with  Uncle  Mathew.  .  .  .  And  now  Mr. 
Warlock  was  sweeping  her  still  farther  inside.  The  intensity  of 
his  belief  forced  hers.  There  was  something  real  in  this  power 
\God,  and  you  could  not  finish  with  it  simply  by  disregarding 


T    0± 

r  of      7 

'11 


MR.  CRASHAW  149 

She  felt,  as  she  had  felt  so  often  lately,  that  some  one  was  sud- 
denly going  to  rise  and  demand  some  oath  or  promise  from  her 
that  she,  in  her  panic,  would  give  her  word  and  then  would  be 
caught  for  ever. 

"  By  the  love  of  Thy  dear  Son,  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  by 
the  promise  of  Thy  second  coming,  we  beseech  Thee"  .  .  .  fin- 
ished Mr.  Warlock. 

During  all  this  time  the  atmosphere  of  the  Chapel  had  been 
growing  hotter  and  hotter  and  closer  and  closer.  It  had  always 
its  air  of  being  buried  deep  under  ground,  bathed  in  a  kind  of 
sunken  heat  that  found  its  voice  in  the  gas  that  hissed  and  sizzled 
overhead;  near  the  door  was  a  long  rail  on  which  coats  might  be 
hung,  and  now  these  garments  could  be  seen,  swaying  a  little  to 
and  fro,  like  corpses  of  condemned  men. 

The  bare  ugliness  of  the  building  with  its  stone  walls,  its  rows 
of  wooden  seats,  its  grey  windows,  its  iron-hung  gas-lamps,  its 
ugly  desk  and  platform,  was  veiled  now  in  a  thin  steaming  heat 
that  rose  mistily  above  the  heads  of  the  kneeling  congregation  and 
seemed  to  hide  strange  shapes  and  shadows  in  its  shifting  depths. 
Every  one  was  swimming  in  an  uncertain  world ;  the  unreality  grew 
with  the  heat.  Maggie  herself,  at  the  end  of  Mr.  Warlock's  prayer, 
felt  that  her  test  of  a  real  solid  and  unimaginative  world  was 
leaving  her.  She  was  expectant  like  the  rest,  as  ready  to  believe 
anything  at  all. 

Out  of  the  mist  rose  Mr.  Crashaw.  This  was  a  little  old  man 
with  a  crabbed  face  and  a  body  that  seemed  to  have  endured  in' 
fernal  twistings  in  some  Inquisitioner's  torture-chamber.  Maggie 
learnt  afterwards  that  he  had  suffered  for  many  years  from  intoler- 
able rheumatism,  but  to-night  the  contortions  and  windings  of  the 
body  with  which  he  climbed  up  onto  the  platform,  and  then  the 
grimaces  that  he  made  as  his  large  round  head  peered  over  the  top 
of  the  desk,  might  have  struck  any  less  solemn  assemblage  as  farci- 
cal. He  wore  an  old  shiny  black  frock  coat  and  a  white  rather 
grimy  tie  fastened  in  a  sharp  little  bow.  His  face  was  lined  like 
a  map,  his  cheeks  seamed  and  furrowed,  his  forehead  a  wilderness 
of  marks,  his  scanty  hair  brushed  straight  back  so  that  the  top 
of  his  forehead  seemed  unnaturally  shiny  and  bald;  his  hands,  with 
which  he  clutched  the  side  of  his  desk,  were  brown  and  wrinkled 
and  grasping  like  a  monkey's.  His  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a 
fanatic,  but  they  were  not  steady  and  speculative  like  Warlock's 
or  glowing  and  distant  like  Aunt  Anne's,  but  rather  angry  and 
restless  and  pugnacious;  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  madman,  but  of 
a  madman  who  can  yet  calculate  upon  and  arrange  his  position  in 


150  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  world.  He  was  mad  for  his  own  purposes,  and  could,  for  these 
same  purposes,  bind  his  madness  to  its  proper  bounds. 

He  seemed  to  Maggie  at  first  rather  pathetic  with  his  little 
twisted  body  and  his  large  round  head.  Very  soon  it  was  emotions 
quite  other  than  pity  that  she  was  feeling.  She  saw  at  once  that 
he  was  a  practised  preacher,  and  she  who  had,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Warlock,  never  heard  a  fine  preacher,  was  at  once  under 
the  sway  of  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  dramatic  orators  of  his 
time.  His  voice  was  sweet  and  clear,  and  seemed  strange  enough 
coming  from  that  ugly  and  malevolent  countenance.  Only  the  head 
and  the  grasping  hands  could  be  seen,  but  sometimes  the  invisible 
body  was  driven  with  such  force  against  the  desk  that  it  seemed 
that  it  must  fling  the  thing  over,  down  into  the  congregation. 

"  My  brothers  and  sisters,"  he  began,  "  I  have  come  to-night  to 
give  you  a  warning,  and  this  warning  is  given  to  you  not  as  the 
expression  of  a  personal  opinion  but  as  the  declaration  of  an  as- 
sumed fact.  Disregard  it  or  not  as  you  please,  but  I  shall  have 
done  my  duty  in  pointing  out  to  you  the  sure  and  certain  mean- 
ing of  my  message. 

"I,  a  sinner  like  the  rest  of  you,  live  nevertheless  in  the  fear 
of  hell  fire.  Hell  fire  has  become,  I  think,  to  many  of  the  present 
generation  a  mockery  and  a  derision.  I  come  to  tell  you  that  it  is 
no  mockery,  that  it  as  surely  lies  there,  a  blazing  furnace,  in  front 
of  us  as  though  we  saw  it  with  our  own  eyes.   ..." 

With  his  own  eyes  he  had  surely  seen  it.  They  were  fixed  now 
in  a  frenzy  of  realisation  upon  some  distant  vision,  and,  with  a 
shiver,  the  Chapel  followed  his  gaze.  It  is  easy  enough  to  laugh 
at  bare  and  conventional  words  stripped  of  the  atmosphere  and 
significance  of  their  original  surroundings.  The  merest  baby  in 
this  twentieth  century  can  laugh  at  the  flames  of  hell  and  advance 
a  string  of  easy  arguments  against  the  probability  of  any  such 
melodramatic  fulfilment  of  the  commonplace  and  colourless  lives 
that  the  majority  of  us  lead,  but  Maggie  was  in  no  mood  to  laugh 
that  night. 

Before  five  minutes  had  passed  she  found  herself  shivering  where 
she  sat.  The  Chapel  was  convicted  of  Sin,  and  of  Sin  of  no 
ordinary  measure.  The  head  that  rested  like  a  round  ball  on  the 
surface  of  the  desk  thrust  conviction  into  every  heart :  "  You  think 
that  you  may  escape,  you  look  at  your  neighbours,  every  one  of 
you,  and  say,  '  He  is  worse  than  I.  I  am  safe,'  but  I  tell  you 
that  not  one  man  or  woman  here  shall  be  secure  unless  he  turn 
instantly  now  to  God  and  beg  for  mercy.   ..." 

As  he  continued  he  did  indeed  bear  the  almost  breathless  urgency 


MR.  CRASHAW  15^ 

of  one  who  has  heen  sent  on  in  advance  to  announce  the  imminence 
of  some  awful  peril.  No  matter  what  the  peril  might  be;  simply 
through  the  Chapel  there  passed  the  breath  of  some  coming  danger. 
Impossible  to  watch  him  and  not  realise  that  here  was  a  man  who 
had  seen  something  with  his  own  eyes  that  had  changed  in  a 
moment  the  very  fabric  of  his  life.  Thurston  might  be  a  charla- 
tan who  played  with  the  beliefs  of  his  dupes,  Warlock  might  be  a 
mystic  whose  vision  was  in  the  future  and  not  in  the  past — 
Crashaw  knew. 

He  painted,  quietly,  without  fine  words  but  with  assurance  and 
conviction,  his  belief  in  the  punishment  of  mankind.  God  was 
almost  now  upon  the  threshold  of  their  house.  He  was  at  the  very 
gates  of  their  city,  and  with  Him  was  coming  a  doom  as  sure  and 
awful  as  the  sentence  of  the  earthly  judge  on  his  earthly  victim. 

"  Punishment !  Punishment !  .  .  .  We  have  grown  in  this  care- 
less age  to  laugh  at  punishment.  A  future  life?  There  is  no 
future  life.  God?  There  is  no  God!  Even  were  He  to  come 
upon  us  we  could  escape  from  Him.  We  could  make  a  very  good 
case  for  ourselves.  This  world  is  safe,  secure,  founded  upon  our 
markets,  our  treasuries,  our  laws  and  commandments,  our  conven- 
tions of  decent  behaviour,  our  police  and  our  ministers.  God  can- 
not touch  us.  We  are  secure.  ...  I  tell  you  that  at  this  very 
moment  this  earth  in  which  you  trust  is  trembling  under  you,  at 
this  instant  everything  in  which  you  believed  is  undermined  and 
is  betraying  you.  You  have  been  given  your  opportunity — you  are 
refusing  it — and  God  is  upon  you." 

His  voice  changed  suddenly  to  tones  of  a  marvellous  sweetness. 
He  appealed,  pleaded,  implored.  The  ugliness  of  his  face  and 
body  was  forgotten,  he  was  simply  a  voice  issuing  from  space,  sent 
to  save  a  world. 

"  And  we  here — the  few  of  us  out  of  this  huge  city  gathered  to- 
gether here — it  is  not  too  late  for  us.  Let  us  surrender  ourselves. 
Let  us  go  to  Him  and  say  that  we  are  His,  that  we  await  His 
coming  and  obey  His  law.  .  .  .  Brothers  and  sisters,  I  am  as  you 
are,  weak  and  helpless  and  full  of  sin,  but  come  to  Him,  come  to 
Him,  come  to  Him!  .  .  .  There  is  help  for  us  all,  help  and  pity 
and  love.  Love  such  as  none  of  us  have  ever  known,  love  that  can- 
not fail  us  and  will  be  with  us  until  eternity!  " 

He  stepped  out  from  behind  the  desk,  stood  before  them  all  with 
his  little  stunted,  twisted  body,  his  arms  held  out  towards  them. 

There  followed  then  an  extraordinary  scene — from  all  over  the 
Chapel  came  sobs  and  cries.  A  man  rose  suddenly  from  the  back 
of  the  building  and  cried  aloud,  "Lord,  I  believe!     Help  Thou 


152  THE  CAPTIVES 

mine  unbelief."  One  of  the  women  who  had  come  with  Miss  Avies 
fell  upon  her  knees  and  began  to  sob,  crying  hysterically :  "  Oh 
God,  have  mercy !  God  have  mercy !  "  Women  pressed  up  the  two 
aisles,  some  of  them  falling  on  their  knees  there  where  they  had 
stood,  others  coming  to  the  front  and  kneeling  there.  Somewhere 
they  began  to  sing  the  hymn  that  had  already  been  sung  that 
evening,  a  few  voices  at  first,  then  more,  then  all  singing  together : 

"  By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beseech  Thee ! " 

Everywhere  now  women  were  crying,  the  Chapel  was  filled  with 
voices,  sobs,  cries  and  prayers. 
Mr.  Crashaw  stood  there,  motionless,  his  arms  outstretched- 
Maggie  did  not  know  what  she  felt.  She  seemed  deprived  of  all 
sensation  on  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  fear  and  excitement;  both 
joy  and  disgust  held  her.  She  could  not  have  told  any  one  what 
her  sensations  were ;  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  as  though 
with  cold.  But  behind  everything  she  had  this  terror,  that  at  any 
moment  she  might  be  drawn  forward  to  do  something,  to  give  some 
pledge  that  would  bind  her  for  all  her  life.  She  felt  as  though 
some  power  were  urging  her  to  this,  and  as  though  the  Chapel  and 
every  one  in  it  was  conscious  of  the  struggle. 

What  might  have  happened  she  would  never  know.  She  felt  a 
touch  on  her  sleeve,  and,  turning  round,  saw  Aunt  Anne's  eyes 
looking  up  at  her  out  of  a  face  that  was  so  white  and  the  skin 
of  it  so  tightly  drawn  that  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  dead 
woman. 

"  I'm  in  great  pain,  Maggie.  I  think  you  must  take  me  home," 
she  heard  her  aunt  say. 

Aunt  Anne  took  her  arm,  they  went  out  followed  by  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth. The  fresh  evening  air  that  blew  upon  Maggie's  forehead 
seemed  suddenly  to  make  of  the  Chapel  a  dim,  incredible  phantom ; 
faintly  from  behind  the  closed  door  came  the  echo  of  the  hymn. 
The  street  was  absolutely  still — no  human  being  was  in  sight,  only 
an  old  cab  stationed  close  at  hand  waiting  for  a  possible  customer ; 
into  this  they  got.  The  pale,  almost  white,  evening  sky,  with  stars 
in  sheets  and  squares  and  pools  of  fire,  shone  with  the  clear  radi- 
ance of  glass  above  them.  Maggie  could  see  the  stars  through  the 
dirty  windows  of  the  cab. 

They  were  quite  silent  all  the  way  home,  Aunt  Anne  sitting  up 
very  straight,  motionless,  her  fingers  still  on  Maggie's  arm. 

Inside  the  house  there  was  Jane.    She  seemed  at  once  to  under- 


MR.  CRASHAW  153 

stand,  and,  with  Aunt  Elizabeth,  led  Aunt  Anne  up  the  dark 
stairs. 

They  disappeared,  leaving  Maggie  alone  in  the  hall,  whose  only- 
sound  was  the  ticking  clock  from  the  stairs  and  only  light  the  dim 
lamp  above  the  door. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   CHOICE 

SHE  waited  for  some  time  alone  in  the  hall  listening  for  she 
knew  not  what.  Her  departure  from  the  Chapel  had  been 
too  abrupt  to  allow  her  in  a  moment  to  shake  off  the  impression  of 
it — above  all,  the  impression  of  Mr.  Crashaw  standing  there,  his 
arms  stretched  out  to  her,  his  eyes  burning  her  through  and  through 
with  the  urgent  insistence  of  his  discovery. 

She  was  tired,  her  head  ached  horribly,  she  would  have  given 
everything  at  that  moment  for  a  friend  who  would  care  for  her 
and  protect  her  from  her  own  wild  fears.  She  did  not  know  of 
what  she  was  afraid,  but  she  knew  that  she  felt  that  she  would 
rather  do  anything  than  spend  the  night  in  that  house.  And  yet 
what  could  she  do?  How  could  she  escape?  She  knew  that  she 
could  not.  Oh !  if  only  Martin  would  come !  Where  was  he  ?  Why 
could  he  not  carry  her  off  that  very  night?  Why  did  he  not 
come? 

She  gazed  desperately  about  her.  Could  she  not  leave  the  house 
there  and  then?  But  where  should  she  go?  What  could  she  do 
without  a  friend  in  London?  She  stood  there,  clasping  and  un- 
clasping her  hands,  looking  up  at  the  black  stairs,  listening  for 
some  sound  from  above,  fancying  a  ghost  in  every  darkening  corner 
of  the  place. 

Then  her  common  sense  reasserted  itself.  It  was  something,  at 
any  rate,  that  she  was  out  of  the  Chapel,  away  from  Mr.  Crashaw's 
piercing  eyes,  Mr.  Thurston's  rasping  voice,  Mr.  Warlock's  re- 
proachful melancholy.  She  felt  this  evening  as  though  by  strug- 
gling with  all  her  strength  she  could  shut  the  gates  upon  new 
experiences  that  were  fighting  to  enter  into  her  soul,  but  must, 
at  all  costs  to  her  own  happiness,  be  defeated.  No  such  thing  as 
ghosts,  no  such  thing  as  a  God,  be  He  kind,  tender,  cruel  or  loving 
— nothing  but  what  one  can  see,  can  touch,  can  confront  with  one's 
physical  strength.  She  had  been  to  a  service  at  a  Methodist 
chapel,  her  aunt  had  been  ill,  to-morrow  there  would  be  daylight 
and  people  hurrying  down  the  street  about  their  business,  work 
and  shops  and  food  and  sun.  .  .  .  No  such  thing  as  ghosts! 
Nothing  but  what  you  can  see! 

154 


THE  CHOICE  155 

*  And  I'll  get  some  work  without  wasting  a  minute,"  she  thought, 
nodding  her  head.  "  In  a  shop  if  necessary — or  I  could  be  a  gov- 
erness— and  then  when  he  is  free,  Martin  will  be  with  me." 

She  climbed  on  a  chair  and  turned  down  the  hall-gas  as  she  had 
seen  Martha  do.  She  went  to  the  door  and  slipped  the  chain  into 
its  socket  and  turned  the  lock.  She  listened  for  a  moment  before 
she  started  upstairs,  she  saw  Mr.  Crashaw's  eyes  in  the  dark — she 
heard  his  voice. 

"Punishment!    Punishment!.    .    ." 

She  suddenly  started  to  run  up  the  black  stairs,  stumbled,  ran 
faster  through  the  passage  under  the  picture  of  the  armed  men, 
arrived  at  last  in  her  room,  breathless. 

During  her  undressing  she  stopped  sometimes  to  listen.  Her 
aunt's  bedroom  was  on  the  floor  below  hers,  and  she  certainly  could 
hear  nothing  through  the  closed  doors,  and  yet  she  fancied,  as  she 
stood  there,  that  the  sound  of  sobbing  came  up  to  her  and,  twice, 
a  sharp  cry. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  terribly  selfish,"  she  thought,  "  I  ought  to  want 
to  go  and  help  Aunt  Anne,  and  I  don't."  No,  she  didn't.  She 
wanted  to  run  away  from  the  house,  miles  and  miles  and  miles. 
She  climbed  into  bed  and  thought  of  her  escape.  If  Miss 
Trenchard  did  not  answer  her  letter,  then  she  could  go  off  to 
Uncle  Mathew,  greatly  though  she  disliked  the  thought  of  that; 
then  she  could  live  on  her  three  hundred  pounds  and  look  about 
until  she  found  work  or  Martin  came  for  her. 

But  so  ignorant  was  she  of  the  world  that  she  did  not  in  the 
least  know  how  she  could  get  her  three  hundred  pounds.  But 
TJncle  Mathew  would  know.  She  thought  of  him  standing  in  the 
doorway  at  the  hotel,  holding  up  a  glass,  then  she  thought  of 
Martin,  and  so  fell  asleep. 

She  woke  suddenly  to  find  some  one  standing  in  her  open  door- 
way and  holding  up  a  candle.  That  some  one  was  old  Martha, 
looking  strange  enough  in  a  nightdress,  her  scanty  grey  hairs 
untidily  about  her  neck  and  a  dirty  red  shawl  over  her  shoulders. 
Maggie  blinked  at  the  light  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  It's  your  aunt.  Miss — Miss  Anne.  She's  very  bad.  She  wants 
you  to  go  to  her." 

Maggie  got  out  of  bed,  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers 
and  followed  the  servant. 

As  she  hurried  along  the  dark  passage  she  was  still  only  half- 
awake;  her  soul  had  not  returned  into  her  body,  but  her  body  was 
nwake  and  vibrating  with  the  knowledge  that  the  soul  was  soon 


156  THE  CAPTIVES 

coming  to  it,  and  coming  to  it  with  great  news,  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  marvellous  experience.  For  at  the  instant  when 
Martha  awoke  her  she  had  been  dreaming  of  Martin,  dreaming  of 
him  physically,  so  that  it  was  his  body  against  hers,  his  hand  hot 
and  dry  in  hers  cool  and  soft,  his  cheek  rough  and  strong  against 
hers  smooth  and  pale.  There  had  been  no  sentimentality  or  weak- 
ness in  her  dream.  They  had  been  confident  and  sure  and  defiant 
together,  and  it  had  been  real  life  for  her,  so  real  that  this  dream 
life  in  which  now  she  moved  down  the  shadowy  passage  was  about 
her  as  green  water  is  about  one  when  one  swims  under  waves. 

It  was  only  slowly,  as  the  cold  air  of  the  house  at  night  cleared 
her  eyes  and  her  throat  and  her  breast,  that  she  came  to  the 
world  consciousness  again  and  surrendered  her  lover  back  to  the 
shades  and  felt  a  sudden  frightened  fear  lest,  after  all,  she  should 
never  really  know  that  ecstasy  of  which  she  had  just  been  dreaming. 

Nevertheless  it  was  still  with  a  great  consciousness  of  Martin 
that  she  entered  her  aunt's  bedroom.  Before  she  entered  she  turned 
round  for  a  moment  to  Martha. 

"  What  must  I  do  ? "  she  asked.  "  What  will  she  want  me  to 
do?" 

"It's  only,"  said  Martha,  "if  the  pains  come  on  very  bad,  to 
give  her  some  drops.  They're  in  a  little  green  bottle  by  her  bed. 
Five  drops  .  .  .  yes,  miss,  five  drops  in  a  little  green  bottle. 
Only  if  the  pains  is  very  bad.  She's  brave — wonderful.  I'd  'ave 
sat  up  till  morning  willing,  and  so  of  course  would  Miss  Elizabeth. 
But  she  seemed  to  want  you,  miss." 

They  were  like  two  conspirators  whispering  there  in  the  dark. 
The  room  within  was  so  still.  Maggie  very  softly  pushed  back  the 
door  and  entered.  She  walked  a  few  steps  inside  the  room  and 
hesitated.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  at  all,  utter  stillness 
so  that  Maggie  could  hear  her  own  breathing  as  though  it  were 
some  one  else  at  her  side  warning  her.  Then  slowly  things  emerged, 
the  long  white  bed  first,  afterwards  a  shaded  lamp  beside  it,  a 
little  table  with  bottles,  a  chair — beyond  the  circle  of  lighted 
shadow  there  were  shapes,  near  the  window  a  high  glass,  a  dark 
shade  that  was  the  dressing-table,  and  faint  grey  squares  where  the 
windows  hung. 

In  the  room  was  a  strange  scent  half  wine,  half  medicine,  and 
beyond  that  the  plain  tang  of  apples  partially  eaten,  a  little  smell 
of  oil  too  from  the  lamp — very  faintly  the  figure  of  the  Christ 
above  the  bed  was  visible.  Maggie  moved  forward  to  the  bed,  then 
stopped  again.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do ;  she  could  see  a  dark 
shadow  on  the  pillow  that  must  she  knew  be  her  aunt's  hair,  and 


THE  CHOICE  157 

yet  she  did  not  connect  that  with  her  aunt.  The  room  was  cold 
and,  she  felt,  of  infinite  space.  The  smell  of  the  wine  and  the 
medicine  made  her  shy  and  awkward  as  though  she  were  somewhere 
where  she  should  not  be. 

There  came  a  little  sigh,  and  then  a  very  quiet,  tired  voice. 

"  Maggie,  is  that  you  ? " 

«  Yes,  Aunt  Anne." 

She  came  very  close  to  the  bed,  and  suddenly,  as  though  a 
curtain  had  been  drawn  back,  she  could  see  her  aunt's  large  eyes 
and  white  sharp  face. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you,  dear,  to  come.  I  felt  ashamed  to 
wake  you  up  at  such  an  hour,  but  I  wanted  you.  I  felt  that  only 
you  must  be  with  me  to-night.  It  was  a  call  from  God.  I  felt 
that  it  must  be  obeyed.  Sit  down,  dear.  There,  on  that  chair. 
You're  not  cold,  are  you  ? " 

Maggie  sat  down,  gathering  her  dressing-gown  close  about  her. 
She  was  not  even  now  drawn  right  out  of  her  dream,  and  the  room 
seemed  fantastic,  to  rise  and  fall  a  little,  and  to  be  filled  with 
sound,  just  out  of  hearing.  For  a  time  she  was  so  sleepy  that  she 
nodded  on  her  chair,  and  the  green  lamp  swelled  and  quivered 
and  the  very  bed  seemed  to  sway  in  the  dark,  but  soon  the  cold 
air  cleared  her  head,  and  she  was  wide  awake,  staring  before  her 
at  the  grey  window-panes.  Her  aunt  did  not  for  a  long  time  speak 
again.  Maggie  sat  there  her  mind  a  maze  of  the  Chapel,  old 
Crashaw,  Miss  Avies,  and  Martin.  Slowly  the  cold  crept  into  her 
feet  and  her  hands,  but  her  head  now  was  burning  hot.  Then  sud- 
denly her  aunt  began  to  talk  in  a  dreamy  rather  lazy  voice,  not  her 
natural  daily  tone  which  was  always  very  sharp  and  clear.  She 
talked  on  and  on;  sometimes  her  sentences  were  confused  and 
unfinished,  sometimes  they  seemed  to  Maggie  to  have  no  meaning; 
once  or  twice  the  voice  dropped  so  low  that  Maggie  did  not  catch 
the  words,  but  always  there  was  especial  urgency  behind  the  care- 
lessness as  though  every  word  were  being  spoken  for  a  listener's 
benefit — a  listener  who  sat  perhaps  with  pencil  and  notebook  some- 
where in  the  dark  behind  them. 

"  So  sorry  ...  so  sorry,  •  Maggie  dear  ...  so  sorry,"  the 
words  ran  up  and  down.  "  I  hadn't  meant  to  take  you  away  before 
the  service  was  over.  Elizabeth  could  have  .  .  .  sometimes  my 
pain  is  very  bad  and  I  have  to  lie  down,  you  know.  But  it's  noth- 
ing—nothing really — only  I'm  glad,  rather,  that  you  should  share 
all  our  little  troubles,  because  then  you'll  know  us  better,  won't 
you?  Dear  Maggie,  there's  been  something  between  us  all  this 
time,  hasn't  there?    Ever  since  our  first  meeting — and  it's  partly 


158  THE  CAPTIVES 

been  my  fault.  I  wasn't  good  at  first,  I  wanted  to  be  kind,  but  I 
was  stiff  and  shy.  You  wouldn't  think  that  I'm  shy?  I  am, 
terribly.  I  always  have  been  since  I  was  very  little,  and  just  to 
enter  a  room  when  other  people  are  there  makes  me  so  embarrassed 
...  I  remember  once  when  mother  was  alive  her  scolding  me  be- 
cause I  wouldn't  come  in  to  a  tea-party.  But  I  couldn't;  I  stood 
outside  the  door  in  an  agony,  doing  everything  to  make  myself  go 
in — but  I  couldn't  .  .  .  But  now  I've  come  to  love  you,  dear, 
although  of  course  you  have  your  faults.  But  they  are  faults  of 
your  age,  carelessness,  selfishness.  They  are  nothing  in  the  eyes  of 
God,  who  understands  all  our  weaknesses.  And  you  must  learn  to 
know  Him,  dear.  That  is  my  only  prayer  now.  If  I  am  taken,  if 
I  go  before  the  great  day — if  it  be  His  will — then  I  pray  always, 
now  that  I  may  leave  you  in  my  place,  waiting  for  Him  as  I  have 
waited,  trusting  Him  as  I  have  trusted  .  .  .  you  saw  to-night 
what  it  means  to  us,  what  it  must  mean  to  any  one  who  has 
listened.  There  were  times,  years  ago,  when  I  had  not  turned  to 
God,  when  I  did  not  care,  when  I  thought  of  earthly  love  .  .  . 
God  drew  me  to  Himself.  .  .  You  too  must  come,  Maggie — you 
must  come.  You  mustn't  stay  outside — you  are  asked,  you  are 
invited — perhaps  you  will  be  compelled  ..." 

The  voice  sank:  Maggie's  teeth  chattered  in  her  head  from  the 
cold,  and  her  foot  had  gone  to  sleep.  She  felt  obstinate  and  rebel- 
lious and  frightened,  she  could  not  think  clearly,  and  the  words 
that  came  from  her,  suddenly,  seemed  to  her  not  to  be  her  own. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  I  want  to  do  everything  that  you  and  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth think  I  should,  but  I  must  be  myself,  mustn't  I  ?  I'm  grown 
up  now;  I've  got  my  three  hundred  pounds  and  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  be  religious.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you  and  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
but  I'm  not  a  help  to  you  much,  I'm  afraid.  I  know  I'm  very 
careless,  I  do  want  to  be  better,  and  that's  all  the  more  reason, 
perhaps,  why  I  should  go  out  and  earn  my  own  living.  I'd  learn 
more  quickly  then.    But  I  do  love  you  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  ..." 

She  broke  off;  she  did  not  love  them.  She  knew  that  she  did 
not.  The  only  human  being  in  all  the  world  whom  she  loved  was 
Martin.  Nevertheless  there  did  come  to  her  suddenly  then  a  new 
tenderness  for  her  aunt;  the  actual  sight  of  her  pain  in  the  Chapel 
had  deeply  touched  her  and  now  her  eagerness  for  escape  was 
mingled  with  a  longing  to  be  affectionate  and  good. 

But  Aunt  Anne  did  not  seem  to  have  heard. 

"  Are  you  sure  you're  not  cold,  dear  ? " 

"  No,  aunt." 

Their  hands  touched. 


THE  CHOICE  159 

"But  you  are.  Put  that  rug  over  you.  That  one  at  the  end 
of  the  bed.    I'm  quiet  now.    I  think  perhaps  I  shall  sleep  a  little." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"  Perhaps  turn  the  lamp  down,  dear.  That's  it.  A  little  more. 
Now,  if  you'd  just  raise  my  pillow.  There,  behind  my  head. 
That's  the  way !    Why,  what  a  good  nurse  you  are !  " 

Maggie,  as  tenderly  as  she  could,  turned  the  pillow,  patted  it, 
placed  it  beneath  her  aunt's  head.  She  was  close  against  her  aunt's 
face,  and  the  eyes  seemed  suddenly  so  fierce  and  urgent,  so  in- 
sistent and  powerful,  that  seeing  them  was  like  the  discovery  of 
some  blazing  fire  in  an  empty  house.  Most  of  all,  they  were  terri- 
fied eyes.  Maggie  went  back  to  her  chair.  After  that,  she  sat 
there  during  the  slow  evolution  of  Eternity;  Eternity  unrolled 
itself  before  her,  on  and  on  and  on,  grey  limitless  mist  and  space, 
comfortless,  lifeless,  hopeless.  She  had  been  for  many  weeks  lead- 
ing a  thoroughly  unwholesome  life  in  that  old  house  with  those  old 
women.  She  did  not  herself  know  how  unhealthy  it  had  been, 
but  she  knew  that  she  missed  the  wide  fields  and  downs  of  Glebe- 
shire,  the  winds  that  blew  from  the  sea  round  Borhedden,  the  air 
that  swirled  and  raced  up  and  down  the  little  stony  strata  of  St. 
Dreot.  Now  she  had  been  kept  indoors,  had  had  no  fun  of  any 
kind,  had  looked  forward  to  Mr.  Magnus  as  her  chief  diversion. 
Then  Martin  had  come,  and  suddenly  she  had  seen  how  danger- 
ously her  life  was  hemming  her  in.  She  was  losing  courage.  She 
would  soon  be  afraid  to  speak  for  herself  at  all;  she  would 
soon  .    .   . 

In  a  panic  at  these  thoughts,  and  feeling  as  though  some  one 
was  trying  to  push  her  down  into  a  coffin  whilst  she  was  still  alive, 
she  began  hurriedly  to  speak,  although  she  did  not  know  whether 
her  aunt  were  asleep  or  no. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Aunt  Anne,  that  I  wrote  a  letter 
some  days  ago  and  posted  it  myself.  It  was  to  a  lady  who  knew 
Father  once  in  Glebeshire,  and  she  said  that  if  ever  I  wanted  help 
I  was  to  write  to  her,  and  so — although  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have 
done  it  without  asking  you  first,  still  I  was  afraid  you  mightn't 
want  me  to — so  I  sent  it.  I  wouldn't  like  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
Aunt  Anne,  and  it  isn't  that  I'm  not  happy  with  you  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  but  I  ought  to  be  earning  my  own  living,  oughtn't  I? 
and  I've  only  got  my  three  hundred  pounds,  haven't  I?  I'm  not 
complaining,  but  I  don't  know  about  anything  yet,  do  I?  I  can't 
even  find  my  way  when  I'm  out  with  Aunt  Elizabeth.  And  I'm 
afraid  I'll  never  be  really  good  enough  to  be  religious.  Perhaps 
if  Father'd  wanted  me  to  be  I  might  be  now,  but  he  never  cared. 


160  THE  CAPTIVES 

...  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry,  Aunt  Anne,  but  I  didn't  like 
to-night — I  didn't  really.  When  I  was  there  I  thought  that  soon 
I'd  begin  to  cry  like  the  others,  but  it  was  only  because  every  one 
else  was  crying — not  because  I  wanted  to.  I  hope  you  won't  be 
angry,  but  I'm  afraid  I'll  never  be  religious  as  you  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth  want  me  to  be;  so  don't  you  think  it  will  be  better  for 
me  to  start  learning  something  else  right  away  ? " 

Maggie  poured  all  this  out  and  then  felt  immense  relief.  At 
last  she  was  honest  again;  at  last  she  had  said  what  she  felt,  and 
they  knew  it  and  could  never  say  that  she  hadn't  been  fair  with 
them.  She  felt  that  her  speech  had  cleared  the  air  in  every  kind 
of  way.  She  waited  for  her  aunt's  reply.  No  sound  came  from 
the  bed.  Had  her  aunt  heard  ?  Perhaps  she  slept.  Maggie  waited. 
Then  timidly,  and  softly  she  said : 

"  Aunt  Anne  .   .    .  Aunt  Anne.  ..." 

No  reply.    Then  again  in  a  whisper: 

"Aunt  Anne  .   .    .  Aunt  Anne.  ..." 

Supposing  Aunt  Anne  .  .  .  Maggie  trembled,  then,  command- 
ing herself  to  be  calm,  she  bent  towards  the  bed. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  are  you  asleep  ? " 

Suddenly  Aunt  Anne's  face  was  there,  the  eyes  closed,  the  mouth, 
the  cheeks  pale  yellow  in  the  faint  reflection  from  the  lamp.  There 
was  no  stir,  no  breath. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  Aunt  Anne,"  Maggie  whispered  in  terror  now. 

Then  she  saw  that  her  aunt  was  sleeping;  very,  very  faintly  the 
sheets  rose  and  fell  and  the  fingers  of  the  hand  on  the  coverlet 
trembled  a  little  as  though  they  were  struggling  to  wake. 

Then  Aunt  Anne  had  heard  nothing  after  all.  But  it  might  be 
that  she  was  pretending,  just  to  see  what  Maggie  would  say. 

"Aunt  Anne,"  whispered  Maggie  once  more  and  for  the  last 
time.  Then  she  sat  back  on  her  seat  again,  her  hands  folded, 
staring  straight  in  front  of  her.  After  that  she  did  not  know 
for  how  long  she  sat  there  in  a  state  somewhere  between  dream  and 
reality.  The  room,  although  it  never  lost  its  familiarity,  grew 
uncouthly  strange;  shapes  grey  and  dim  seemed  to  move  beneath 
the  windows,  humping  their  backs,  spinning  out  into  long  limbs, 
hands  and  legs  and  gigantic  fingers.  The  deadest  hour  of  the 
night  was  come;  the  outside  world  seemed  to  press  upon  the 
house,  the  whole  world  cold,  thick,  damp,  lifeless,  like  an  animal 
slain  and  falling  with  its  full  weight,  crushing  everything  be- 
neath it.  Perhaps  she  slept — she  did  not  know.  Martin  seemed 
to  be  with  her,  and  against  them  was  Aunt  Anne,  her  back  against 
the  door,  her  hands  spread,  refusing  to  let  them  pass.    The  room 


THE  CHOICE  161 

joined  in  the  struggle,  the  floor  slipped  beneath  their  tread,  the 
curtain  swayed  forward  and  caught  them  in  its  folds,  the  lamp 
flickered  and  flickered  and  flickered.  .    .    . 

She  was  awake  suddenly,  quite  acutely  aware  of  danger.  She 
rubbed  her  eyes,  turned,  and  in  the  dim  shadow  saw  her  aunt  sit- 
ting up  in  bed,  her  body  drawn  up  to  its  intensest  height,  her  hands 
pressing  down,  flat  upon  the  bed.  Her  eyes  stared  as  though  they 
would  break  down  all  boundaries,  but  her  lips  trembled  like  the 
lips  of  a  little  child. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  what  is  it  ? "  Maggie  whispered. 

"It's  the  pain "    Her  voice  was  far  away  as  though  come 

one  were  speaking  from  the  passage  outside  the  door.  "  It's  the 
pain  ...  I  can't  .    .    .  much  more.  ..." 

Maggie  remembered  what  Martha  had  told  her  about  the  drops. 
She  found  the  little  green  bottle,  saw  the  glass  by  the  side  of 
it. 

Suddenly  she  heard  Aunt  Anne :  "  Oh  no  ...  Oh  no !  God 
I  can't  .   .   .  God,  I  can't  ...  I  can't." 

Maggie  bent  over  the  bed;  she  put  her  hand  behind  her  aunt's 
back  and  could  feel  the  whole  body  quivering,  the  flesh  damp  be- 
neath the  night-dress.  She  steadied  her,  then  put  the  glass  to  her 
lips. 

The  cry  was  now  a  little  whisper.  "  No  more  ...  I  can  .  .  . 
no  more."  Then  more  softly  still :  "  Thy  will,  oh  Lord.  As  thou 
wilt — Our  Father,  which  art  in  Heaven,  Hallowed  .  .  .  Hallowed 
.    .    .  Hallowed.  ..." 

She  sank  down  on  to  her  pillows. 

"  Is  it  better  ?  "  Maggie  asked. 

Her  aunt  caught  her  hand. 

"  You  mustn't  leave  me.  I  shan't  live  long,  but  you  must  stay 
with  me  until  I  go.    Promise  me !    Promise  me ! " 

"  No,  I  can't  promise,"  said  Maggie. 

"You  must  stay.    You  must  stay." 

"No,  I  can't  promise."  Then  suddenly  kneeling  down  by  the 
bed  she  put  her  hand  on  the  other's  arm :  "  Aunt  Anne,  I'll  do 
anything  for  you — anything — to  make  you  better — if  I  can  help 
.   .    .  but  not  a  promise,  I  can't  promise." 

"  Ah,  but  you  will  stay,"  Aunt  Anne's  whisper  trembled  with 
its  certainty. 

That  seemed  the  climax  of  the  night  to  Maggie  then.  She  felt 
that  she  was  indeed  held  for  eternity  by  the  house,  the  Chapel,  and 
something  beyond  the  Chapel.  The  scent  of  the  medicine,  the 
closeness  of  the  room,  the  darkness  and  the  sickness,  seemed  to 


162  THE  CAPTIVES 

close  all  about  her.  .  .  .  She  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well, 
and  she  would  never  get  out,  she  would  never  get  out.  .    .    . 

The  door  slowly,  very  softly  opened,  and  old  Martha  looked  in. 

"  She's  been  very  bad,"  whispered  Maggie. 

"Ay,  I  heard  something.  That's  why  I  came.  You  gave  her 
the  drops?" 

"  Yes." 

"  She'll  sleep  a  bit  now.  I'll  take  your  place,  Miss  Maggie.  It's 
time  you  went  back  to  your  bed." 

Maggie  crept  away. 

She  came  down  to  breakfast  to  find  the  house  bathed  in  sunlight 
and  the  parrot  singing  hoarsely  "  And  her  golden  hair  was  hang- 
ing down  her  back."  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  there,  cheerful  and 
almost  merry  in  her  bird-like  fashion.  The  world  was  normal, 
ghosts  out  of  fashion,  and  this  morning  was  the  day  on  which 
the  silver  was  cleaned.  This  last  was  Maggie's  business,  and  very 
badly  she  did  it,  never  being  "  thorough,"  and  having  a  fatal  habit 
of  thinking  of  other  things.  Porridge,  eggs  and  bacon,  marma- 
lade  

"  And — her  golden  hair  was  hanging "  croaked  Edward. 

"  Your  aunt  won't  come  down  this  morning,  Maggie.  She's  much 
better.  The  sun's  shining.  A  little  walk  will  be  a  good  thing. 
I'll  buy  the  calico  that  Anne  talked  about.    Your  aunt's  better." 

Maggie  felt  ashamed  of  herself.  What  desperate  silly  feelings 
had  she  allowed  last  night?  How  much  she  had  made  of  that 
service,  and  how  weak  she  was  to  give  way  so  easily! 

"  I'll  clean  the  silver,"  she  thought.  "  I'll  do  it  better  than  ever  " 
— but  unfortunately  she  had  a  hole  in  her  stocking,  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  like  a  sparrow  who  has  found  a  worm,  told  her  about  it. 

"  Mr.  Crashaw's  coming  to  tea  this  afternoon,"  she  concluded. 
u  That's  why  Anne's  staying  in  bed — to  be  well  enough."  The 
stocking  and  Mr.  Crashaw  dimmed  a  little  of  the  morning's 
radiance,  but  behind  them  was  the  thought,  "Martin  must  come 
to-day.  It  was  like  a  message  his  look  last  night."  She  even 
sang  to  herself  as  she  scrubbed  at  the  silver. 

They  spent  a  domestic  morning.  Aunt  Elizabeth  did  not  go 
for  her  walk,  but  instead  stayed  in  the  dining-room  and,  seated  at 
the  end  of  the  long  dining-table,  her  head  just  appearing  above  the 
worn  and  soiled  green  table-cloth,  tried  to  discipline  the  week's 
household  accounts.  She  worked  sucking  one  finger  after  another 
and  poking  her  pencil  into  her  ears. 

"  One  pound,  three  shillings — ham,  ham,  ham V1 


THE  CHOICE  163 

At  one  moment  she  invited  the  cook  to  assist  her,  and  that  lady, 
crimson  from  the  kitchen  fire,  bared  arms  akimbo,  stated  that  she 
was  not  only  the  most  economical  woman  in  London,  but  was  also, 
thanks  to  her  upbringing,  one  of  the  most  sober  and  virtuous,  and 
if  Miss  Cardinal  had  anything  to  say  against " 

Oh  no!  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  nothing  to  say  against,  only  this 
one  pound,  three  shillings 

Well,  the  cook  couldn't  help  that ;  she  wasn't  one  to  let  a  penny 
out  of  her  fingers  where  it  shouldn't  go. 

So  the  morning  hummed  along;  luncheon-time  came,  the  silver 
was  all  cleaned,  the  stockings  changed,  and  there  was  roast  chicken. 
Thomas,  with  his  wicked  eyes,  came  slowly,  majestically  upon  the 
scene — but  even  he  was  not  sinister  to-day,  being  interested  in  his 
own  greed  rather  than  other  persons'  sins. 

All  this  time  Maggie  refused  to  think.  Martin  would  come,  then 
she  would  see. 

Martin  .  .  .  Martin  .  .  .  Martin  .  .  .  She  went  up  into  her 
bedroom  and  whispered  the  name  over  and  over  to  herself  whilst 
she  tried  to  mend  her  stocking.  She  flung  the  stocking  down  and 
gazed  out  of  the  window  on  to  a  world  that  was  all  golden  cloud 
and  racing  watery  blue.  The  roofs  swam  like  floating  carpets  in 
the  sun,  detached  from  the  brick  and  mortar  beneath  them,  carried 
by  the  racing  clouds.  It  was  only  at  that  sudden  gaze  that  she 
realised  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  All  her  alarm  came  back  to  her. 

11  Why  can't  I  go  out  ?  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  just  walk  out. 
No  one  can  stop  me.    No  one.  ..." 

But  she  knew  that  she  could  not.  Something  more  must  happen 
first.  She  turned  from  the  window  with  a  little  shudder,  finished 
very  clumsily  her  stocking,  and  as  the  cuckoo  clock  struck  half- 
past  three  went  down  to  the  drawing-room. 

There  to  her  surprise,  she  found  Caroline  Smith.  The  events 
of  the  last  few  days  had,  a  little,  dimmed  Caroline  from  her 
memory.  She  had  not  seen  Caroline  for  a  fortnight.  She  did 
not  know  that  she  especially  wanted  to  see  Caroline  now.  How- 
ever, it  was  very  certain  that  Caroline  wanted  to  see  her.  The 
young  woman  was  dressed  in  rose-coloured  silk  that  stood  out 
from  her  slim  body  almost  like  a  crinoline,  and  she  had  a  straw 
funnel-shaped  hat  with  roses  perched  on  the  side  of  her  lovely  head. 
She  kissed  Maggie  many  times,  and  then  sitting  down  with  her 
little  sharp  black  shoes  poked  out  in  front  of  her,  she  ran 
on: 

"It's  been  too  bad,  Maggie,  dear;  it's  simply  ages  since  we  had 
a  moment,  isn't  it,  but  it  hasn't  been  my  fault.    Father's  been  ill 


164  THE  CAPTIVES 

— bronchitis — and  I've  had  to  help  Mother.  Father's  been  so 
happy,  he's  just  been  able  to  lie  in  bed  for  days  and  think  about 
God.  None  of  those  tiresome  people  at  the  Bank  to  interrupt 
him,  and  chicken  and  jelly  as  much  as  he  liked.  He  was  so 
unhappy  yesterday  when  he  had  to  go  back  to  work,  poor  dear. 
.  .  .  But,  Maggie,  I  hear  you  were  at  the  service  last  night. 
How  did  you  like  it  ? " 

"  Like  it  ? "  said  Maggie.  "  I  don't  know  that  it's  a  thing  one 
likes,  exactly." 

"  Doesn't  one  ?  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  one  of  the  Inside  Saints, 
you  know,  and  I  wouldn't  be  if  they  wanted  me  to  be.  But  you're 
one  now,  they  say,  and  I  never  would  have  thought  it.  You  don't 
look  a  bit  like  one,  and  I  shouldn't  have  dreamt  that  you'd  ever 
stand  that  sort  of  thing.    You  look  so  matter-of-fact." 

Maggie  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  out  that  she  was  not  an 
Inside  Saint,  and  would  never  be  one,  when  caution  restrained 
her.  She  had  learnt  already  that  her  gay  young  companion 
was  not  as  trustworthy  as  best  friends  ought  to  be. 

"  It  was  the  first  time,  last  night,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  and  Miss  Cardinal  was  ill  and  had  to  come  away 
in  the  middle,  didn't  she?  It  must  have  been  a  simply  awful 
meeting,  because  Mother  came  back  as  limp  as  anything.  She'd 
been  crying  buckets,  and  has  a  dreadful  headache  to-day.  I  sup- 
pose Mr.  Crashaw  gave  it  them.  I've  never  heard  him,  but  I've 
seen  him.  Horrid  old  monkey — I  hope  Miss  Cardinal's  better  to- 
day." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie.    "  She's  better." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  thing.  I'm  so  glad.  And  you,  you  darling, 
what  did  you  think  of  it  all?  I'm  sure  you  didn't  cry  buckets. 
I  can  see  you  sitting  there  as  quiet  as  anything,  like  a  little  Quaker. 
I'd  like  to  have  gone  just  to  have  seen  you.  I  hear  Martin  War- 
lock was  there  too.    Was  he  ? " 

"  He  was,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Fancy  that !  I  wonder  what  he  went  for.  His  father  made 
him,  I  expect.  You  know  they  say  he's  getting  on  awfully  badly 
at  home  and  that  there  are  quarrels  all  the  time.  I  don't  know,  of 
course,  but  his  sister  can't  stand  him.  She's  always  showing  her 
feelings — not  very  good  taste,  I  think,  but  Mr.  Thurston  eggs  her 
on.    They'll  be  making  a  match  of  it  one  day,  those  two.  .    .    . 

I  say,  Maggie "    Caroline  drew  her  chair  close.    "  I'll  give  you 

a  secret.    You  won't  tell  any  one,  will  you  ? " 

"  Certainly  not — if  you  tell  me  not  to,"  said  Maggie. 

"Well,  Martin  Warlock  and  I— <ever  since  he  came  back.    Oh! 


THE  CHOICE  165 

I  don't  say  it's  anything  really.  But  he's  attracted  hy  me  and 
would  like  to  go  farther.  He'll  be  asking  me  to  marry  him  one 
of  these  days,  and  then  I'll  have  fun.  He  would  have  done  the 
other  day  if  I'd  let  him.  I  like  him  rather,  don't  you?  He's 
getting  a  bit  fat,  of  course,  but  he's  got  nice  eyes,  and  then  he's 
a  real  man.  I  like  real  men.  But  there,  you'll  be  thinking  me 
coarse,  I  know  you  will.  I'm  not  coarse  really,  only  impulsive. 
You  don't  like  me,  honestly,  if  it  were  known.  Oh  no  1  you  don't ! 
I  can  tell.  I  always  know.  But  I  don't  care — I  love  you.  You're 
a  darling — and  what  I  say  is  if  you  love  some  one,  just  love  them. 
Never  mind  what  they  think.  Don't  you  agree  with  me!  But 
you  wouldn't.  You  wouldn't  think  of  loving  anybody.  But  I'm 
not  really  bad — only  careless,  Mother  says " 

What  Mother  said  could  not  be  known,  because  the  door  opened 
and  Martha  announced  Mr.  Crashaw.  The  old  man,  leaning  on  a 
walking  stick,  came  forward  and  greeted  Maggie  and  Caroline 
with  good-temper  and  amiability.  He  was  indeed  in  day-time  a 
very  mild  old  man,  and  it  was  difficult  for  Maggie  to  believe  that 
this  was  the  same  who  last  night  had  frightened  her  out  of  her 
wits  and  led  her  to  the  edge  of  such  strange  suspicions.  He  was 
more  than  ever  like  a  monkey,  with  his  bony  brown  forehead,  pro- 
tuberant eyes  and  large  mottled  nose,  and  he  sat  there  all  huddled 
up  by  his  rheumatism,  a  living  example  of  present  physical  tor- 
ments rather  than  future  spiritual  ones.  It  was  apparent  at  once 
that  he  liked  pretty  young  women,  and  he  paid  Caroline  a  number 
of  flattering  attentions,  disregarding  Maggie  with  a  frankness  that 
witnessed  to  a  life  that  had  taught  one  lesson  at  least,  never  on 
any  occasion  to  waste  time.  Maggie  did  not  mind — it  amused  her 
to  see  her  terror  of  the  night  before  transformed  into  a  mere 
serenading  crippled  old  gentleman,  and  to  see,  too,  the  excited 
pleasure  with  which  Caroline  accepted  even  such  decayed  attentions 
as  these.  But  what  was  it  that  had  persuaded  her  last  night  ?  Why 
did  she  now  spend  her  time  half  in  one  world  and  half  in  another  ? 
Which  world  was  the  real  one? 

Aunt  Anne  very  soon  joined  them,  and  this  quiet,  composed 
figure  only  added  to  Maggie's  scorn  of  her  last  night's  terrors.  Was 
this  the  same  who  had  struggled  with  such  agony,  who  had  made 
Maggie  feel  that  she  was  caught  in  a  trap  and  imprisoned  for 
ever? 

The  sun  beat  hotly  upon  the  carpet.  Caroline's  rose-coloured 
silk  shone  and  glowed,  the  tea  was  poured  out,  and  there  was 
chatter  about  the  warm  winter  that  it  was  and  how  time  passed, 
and  how  fashions  changed,  and  how  you  never  saw  a  four-wheeler 


166  THE  CAPTIVES 

now,  and  what  they  were  turning  Kingsway  into,  and  what  they 
were  turning  the  Law  Courts  out  of,  and  even  once,  by  Mr. 
Crashaw,  a  word  about  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  where  some  one  was 
playing  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  which  was  a  fine  play  and  could 
do  no  one  any  harm. 

"  But  I  daresay,"  said  Mr.  Crashaw,  "  that  this  young  lady  here 
goes  to  nothing  but  plays  every  night  of  her  life." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Crashaw,"  said  Caroline,  tossing  her  head.  u  If 
that's  the  kind  of  life  you  fancy  I  lead  you're  completely  mistaken. 
Theatres  indeed!  Never  do  I  put  so  much  as  the  tip  of  my  nose 
inside  one.  Father  thinks  they're  wrong  and  so  does  Mother  say 
she  does,  although  I  know  she  likes  them  really;  but  any  way  that 
doesn't  matter  because  I  never  have  a  moment  to  myself — sitting 
at  home  sewing,  that's  the  way  I  spend  my  days,  Mr.  Cra- 
shaw." 

It  was  the  very  last  way  she  really  spent  them,  as  Maggie  per- 
fectly well  knew.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Crashaw  either 
was  deceived.  However,  he  gave  a  wicked  wink  with  the  eye  that 
was  least  rheumatic  and  said  something  about  "  a  beautiful  young 
lady  like  Miss  Smith  wasted  on  sewing  and  darning,"  and  Caroline 
smiled  and  said  something  about  "  one  day  perhaps  " — and  Aunt 
Anne  looked  remotely  benevolent.  What  did  she  think  of  all  this, 
Maggie  wondered  ?  What  did  she  think  of  her  great  preacher,  her 
prophet,  wasting  the  few  hours  of  life  that  remained  to  him  over 
such  a  business?  They  had  some  secret  understanding,  perhaps, 
as  though  they  said  to  one  another,  "We  know,  you  and  I,  what 
are  our  real  intentions  beneath  all  this.  We  only  do  what  we 
must." 

Understanding  or  no,  Mr.  Crashaw  sprang  up  with  unexpected 
activity  when  Caroline  departed  and  announced  his  intention  of 
conducting  her  to  her  door.  He  made  his  adieus  and  then  hobbled 
along  after  the  rose-coloured  silk  as  though  this  was  his  last  chance 
of  warming  his  hands  at  the  flame  of  life. 

When  they  were  gone,  Aunt  Anne  said: 

"I  am  going  back  to  bed,  Maggie,  dear.  Martha  will  send  me 
up  some  supper  later.  Elizabeth  has  gone  to  Lambeth  to  see  a 
friend,  so  make  yourself  busy  until  seven,  dear.  If  I  want  any- 
thing I'll  ring." 

When  she  was  left  alone  in  the  darkening  room  she  stood  there 
thinking.  Why  should  she  not  go  out  and  find  Martin?  She  did 
not  care  what  any  one  thought.  She  would  go  to  his  house  and 
ask  for  him.  She  had  waited  and  waited.  .  .  .  She  wanted  him 
so,  she  wanted  him  so  desperately! 


THE  CHOICE  167 

Then  Martha  opened  the  door  and  announced  him,  yes,  really 
announced  him,  saying:  "It's  young  Mr.  Warlock,  Miss,  and  he 
says  if  your  aunts  isn't  in  you'll  do." 

"Ask  him  to  come  up,  Martha,"  said  Maggie,  and  then  held 
herself  there,  rooted,  where  she  stood  so  that  she  should  not  run 
to  him  and  fling  her  arms  round  his  neck.  She  felt  at  once  with 
that  quick  perception  that  was  hers,  in  spite  of  her  ignorance  of 
life,  that  this  was  no  moment  for  love-making,  and  that  he  wanted 
something  quite  other  from  her. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  looked  round  the  room,  didn't 
come  to  her,  but  stayed  where  he  was. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  see  you  all  day,"  he  said.  "  How  long  have 
we  got  alone  do  you  think  ? " 

She  never  took  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"  Until  seven  probably.  Aunt  Elizabeth's  in  Lambeth  and  Aunt 
Anne's  in  bed." 

"  That's  luck."  He  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  then  moved  over  to 
the  fireplace.  "Maggie,  I've  come  to  say  we  mustn't  see  one 
another  any  more." 

Some  one,  some  vast  figure  shadowy  behind  her,  moved  suddenly 
forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  his  embrace  was  deadly 
cold.  She  stood  where  she  was,  her  hands  at  her  side,  looking  stead- 
fastly at  him. 

"Why?"  she  said. 

"Because — because — the  fact  is,  I've  been  wrong  altogether. 
Maggie,  I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  for  you  to  have  anything  to  do 
with.  You  don't  know  much  about  life  yet,  do  you?  I'm  about 
the  first  man  you've  ever  met,  aren't  I  ?  If  you'd  met  another  man 
before  me,  you'd  have  cared  for  him  as  much." 

She  said  nothing  and  he  seemed  to  be  confused  by  her  steady 
gaze,  because  he  looked  down  and  continued  to  speak  as  though 
to  himself: 

"  I  knew  at  once  that  there  was  danger  in  our  meeting.  With 
other  girls  they  can  look  after  themselves.  One  hasn't  any  re- 
sponsibility to  them.  It's  their  own  affair,  but  you  believe  every 
word  a  fellow  says.  And  if  we'd  been  friends  it  wouldn't  have 
mattered,  but  from  the  very  first  we  weren't  that — we  were  some- 
thing more. 

"  You  were  so  different  from  any  other  girl.  I've  wanted  to  be 
good  to  you  from  the  beginning,  but  now  I  see  that  if  we  go  on  I 
shall  only  be  bad.  It  all  comes  in  the  end  to  my  being  bad — really 
bad — and  I  want  you  to  know  it." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  "  that  I've  thought  very  much 


168  THE  CAPTIVES 

whether  you're  good  or  bad.  And  it  doesn't  matter.  I  can  look 
after  myself." 

"  No,  you  can't,"  he  said  vehemently,  making  a  step  towards 
her  and  then  suddenly  stopping.  "  That's  just  it — you  can't.  I've 
been  thinking  all  the  time  since  the  other  evening  when  we  were 
together,  and  I've  seen  that  you  believe  every  word  I  say  and  you 
trust  me.  I  don't  mean  to  tell  lies — I  don't  know  that  I'm  worse 
than  most  other  men — but  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you  to  trust 
in  all  the  same.  I've  been  knocking  about  for  years,  and  I  sup- 
pose I've  had  most  of  my  idealism  knocked  out  of  me.  Anyway 
I  don't  believe  in  most  people,  and  you  still  do.  I'm  not  going  to 
be  the  one  to  change  you." 

"Perhaps  I  know  more  about  life  than  you  think,"  said 
Maggie. 

"  No,  how  can  you  ?  You've  never  had  a  chance  of  seeing  any 
of  it.  You'd  get  sick  of  me  in  no  time.  I'm  moody  and  selfish 
and  bad-tempered.  I  used  to  drink  a  bit  too.  And  I  can't  be 
faithful  to  women.  I  might  think  I  was  going  to  be  faithful  to 
you  and  swear  I  would  be — and  then  suddenly  some  one  would 
come  along.  I  thought  for  a  bit  I'd  just  go  on  with  you  and  see 
what  came  of  it.  You're  so  unusual,  you  make  me  want  to  be 
straight  with  you;  but  I've  seen  it  wouldn't  be  fair.  I  must  just 
slip  out  of  your  path  and  you'll  forget  me,  and  then  you'll  meet 
a  much  better  man  than  I  and  be  happy.  I'm  queer — I  have  funny 
moods  that  last  for  days  and  days  sometimes.  I  seem  to  do  every 
one  harm  I  come  in  touch  with.  There's  my  father  now.  I  love 
him  more  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  yet  I  make  him  unhappy 
all  the  time.    I'm  a  bad  fellow  to  be  with " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  "  It  isn't  any 
good,  Maggie.  .  .  .  You  haven't  any  idea  what  a  sweep  I  am. 
You'd  hate  me  if  you  really  knew." 

She  looked  steadily  back  at  him.  "  We  haven't  much  time,"  she 
said,  speaking  with  steady,  calm  conviction  as  though  she  had,  for 
years,  been  expecting  just  such  a  conversation  as  this,  and  had 
thought  out  what  she  would  say.  "  Aunt  Elizabeth  can  come  back 
earlier  than  she  said.  Perhaps  I  shall  say  something  I  oughtn't 
to.  I  don't  care.  The  whole  thing  is  that  I  love  you.  I  suppose 
it's  true  that  I  don't  know  anything  about  men,  but  I'd  be  poor 
enough  if  my  love  for  you  just  depended  on  your  loving  me  back, 
and  on  your  being  good  to  me  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I've  never  had 
any  one  I  could  love  until  you  came,  but  now  that  you  have  come 
it  can't  be  anything  that  you  can  do  that  can  alter  it.  If  you  were 
to  go  away  I'd  still  love  you,  because  it's  the  love  in  me  that 


\ 


THE  CHOICE  169 

matters,  not  what  I  get  for  it.  Perhaps  you'll  make  m«  unhappy, 
but  anyway  one  will  be  unhappy  some  of  the  time." 

She  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him.  "  I  know  Caroline  Smith 
or  some  one  would  be  very  shocked  if  they  thought  I'd  said  such 
things  to  you,  but  I  can't  help  what  they  say." 

He  had  a  movement  to  catch  her  and  hold  her,  but  he  kept  him- 
self off,  moved  away  from  her,  turning  his  back  to  her. 

"  You  don't  understand  .  .  .  you  don't  understand,"  he  re- 
peated. "You  know  nothing  about  men,  Maggie,  and  you  know 
nothing  about  me.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  be  faithful  to  you,  and  I'd 
be  drunk  sometimes,  and  I'd  have  moods  for  days,  when  I'd  just 
sulk  and  not  speak  to  a  soul.  I  think  those  moods  some  damned 
sort  of  religion  when  I'm  in  them,  but  what  they  really  are  is  bad 
temper.  You've  got  to  know  it,  Maggie.  I'd  be  rotten  to  you, 
however  much  I  wanted  not  to  be." 

"  That's  my  own  affair,"  she  answered.  "  I  can  look  after  my- 
self. And  for  all  the  rest,  I'm  independent  and  I'll  always 
be  independent.  I'll  love  you  whether  you're  good  to  me  or 
bad." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  suddenly  wheeled  round  to  her,  "  you'd  better 
have  it.  .   .   .  I'm  married  already." 

She  took  that  with  a  little  startled  cry.  Her  eyes  searched  his 
face  in  a  puzzled  fashion  as  though  she  were  pursuing  the  truth. 
Then  she  said  like  a  child  who  sees  some  toy  broken  before  its 
eyes: 

"Oh,  Martin!" 

"Yes.  Nobody  knows — not  a  soul.  It  was  a  mad  thing — four 
years  ago  in  Marseilles  I  met  a  girl,  a  little  dressmaker  there.  I 
went  off  my  head  and  married  her,  and  then  a  month  later  she  ran 
off  with  a  merchant  chap,  a  Greek.  I  didn't  care;  we  got  on  as 
badly  as  anything  .  .  .  but  there  you  are.  No  one  knows.  That's 
the  whole  thing,  Maggie.  I  thought  at  first  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  I 
was  beginning  to  care  for  you  too  much,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and 
then  when  your  uncle  asked  me  to  dinner,  I  told  myself  I  was  a  fool 
to  go.  Then  when  I  saw  how  you  trusted  me,  I  thought  I'd  be  a 
cad  and  let  it  continue,  but  somehow  .  .  .  you've  got  an  influence 
over  me.  .  .  .  You've  made  me  ashamed  of  things  I  wouldn't 
have  hesitated  about  a  year  ago.  And  the  funny  thing  is  it  isn't 
your  looks.  I  can  say  things  to  you  I  couldn't  to  other  women, 
and  I'll  tell  you  right  away  that  there  are  lots  of  women  attract 
me  more.  And  yet  I've  never  felt  about  any  woman  as  I  do  about 
you,  that  I  wanted  to  be  good  to  her  and  care  for  her  and  love  her. 
It's  always  whether  they  loved  me  that  I've  thought  about  .    .   . 


170  THE  CAPTIVES 

Well,  now  I've  told  you,  you  see  that  I'd  better  go,  hadn't  I  ?  You 
see  .    .    .  you  see." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I've  got  to  think.  It  makes  a  difference,  of  course.  Can  we 
meet  after  a  week  and  talk  again  ? " 

"Much  better  if  I  don't  see  you  any  more.  I'll  go  away  alto- 
gether— abroad  again." 

"  No — after  a  week " 

"Much  better  not." 

"Yes.  Come  here  after  a  week.  And  if  we  can't  be  alone  I'll 
give  you  a  letter  somehow.  .    .    .  Please,  Martin — you  must." 

"Maggie,  just  think " 

"  No — after  a  week." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  turned  on  her  fiercely.  "  I've  been  honest. 
I've  told  you.  I've  done  all  I  can.  If  I  love  you  now  it  isn't 
my  fault." 

He  left  the  room,  not  looking  at  her  again.  And  she  stood  there, 
staring  in  front  of  her. 


CHAPTEK  VI 

THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME 

MARTIN  walked  into  the  street  with  a  confused  sense  of 
triumph  and  defeat,  that  confusion  that  comes  to  all  sensi- 
tive men  at  the  moment  when  they  are  stepping,  against  their 
will,  from  one  set  of  conditions  into  another.  He  had  gone  into 
that  house,  only  half  an  hour  ago,  determined  to  leave  Maggie  for 
ever — for  his  good  and  hers.  He  came  back  into  the  street  realis- 
ing that  he  was  now,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  quite  definitely  in- 
volved in  some  relation  with  her — good,  bad,  safe,  dangerous  he 
did  not  know — but  involved.  He  had  intended  to  tell  her  nothing 
of  his  marriage — and  he  had  told  her.  He  had  intended  to  treat 
their  whole  meeting  as  something  light,  passing,  inconsiderable — 
he  had  instead  treated  it  as  something  of  the  utmost  gravity.  He 
had  intended,  above  all,  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  could  do  what 
he  wished — he  had  found  that  he  had  no  power. 

And  so,  as  he  stepped  through  the  dim  gold-dust  of  the  evening 
light  he  was  stirred  with  an  immense  sense  of  having  stepped, 
definitely  at  last,  across  the  threshold  of  new  adventure  and  enter- 
prise. All  kinds  of  problems  were  awaiting  solution — his  relation 
to  his  father,  his  mother,  his  sister,  his  home,  his  past,  his  future, 
his  sins  and  his  weaknesses — and  he  had  meant  to  solve  them  all, 
as  he  had  often  solved  them  in  the  past,  by  simply  cutting  adrift. 
But  now,  instead  of  that,  he  had  decided  to  stay  and  face  it  all  out, 
he  had  confessed  at  last  that  secret  that  he  had  hidden  from  all 
the  world,  and  he  had  submitted  to  the  will  of  a  girl  whom  he 
scarcely  knew  and  was  not  even  sure  that  he  liked. 

He  stopped  at  that  for  a  moment  and,  standing  in  a  little  pool 
of  purple  light  under  the  benignant  friendliness  of  a  golden  moon 
new  risen  and  solitary,  he  considered  it.  No,  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  liked  her — it  was  interest  rather  that  drew  him,  her 
strangeness,  her  strength  and  loneliness,  young  and  solitary  like  the 
moon  above  him — and  yet — also  some  feeling  softer  than  interest 
so  that  he  was  suddenly  touched  as  he  thought  of  her  and  spoke  out 
aloud :  "  I'll  be  good  to  her — whatever  happens,  by  God  I'll  be  good 
to  her,"  so  that  a  chauffeur  near  him  turned  and  looked  with  hard 
scornful  eyes,  and  a  girl  somewhere  laughed.  With  all  his  conven- 
tional dislike  of  being  in  any  way  *  odd  "  he  walked  hurriedly  on, 

171 


172  THE  CAPTIVES 

confused  and  wondering  more  than  ever  what  it  was  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  Always  before  he  had  known  his  own  mind — now, 
in  everything,  he  seemed  to  be  pulled  two  ways.  It  was  as  though 
some  spell  had  been  thrown  over  him. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  and  he  walked  slowly,  not  wishing 
to  enter  his  house  too  quickly.  He  realised  that  he  had,  during  the 
last  weeks,  found  nothing  there  but  trouble.  And  if  Maggie  wished, 
in  spite  of  what  he  had  told  her,  to  go  on  with  him?  And  if  his 
father,  impatient  at  last,  definitely  asked  him  to  stay  at  home 
altogether  and  insisted  on  an  answer?  And  if  his  gradually  in- 
creasing estrangement  with  his  sister  broke  into  open  quarrel  \ 
And  if,  strangest  of  all,  this  religious  business,  that  in  such  mani- 
festations as  the  Chapel  service  of  last  night  he  hated  with  all 
his  soul,  held  him  after  all? 

He  was  in  Garrick  Street,  outside  the  curiosity  shop,  his  latch- 
key in  his  hand.  He  stopped  and  stared  down  the  street  as  he  had 
done  once  before,  weeks  ago.  Was  not  the  root  of  all  his  trouble 
simply  this,  that  he  was  becoming  against  his  will  interested,  drawn 
in?  That  there  were  things  going  on  that  his  common  sense  re- 
jected as  nonsense,  but  that  nevertheless  were  throwing  out  feelers 
like  the  twisting  threats  of  an  octopus,  touching  him  now,  only 
faintly,  here  for  a  second,  there  for  a  second,  but  fascinating,  hold- 
ing him  so  that  he  could  not  run  away?  Granted  that  Thurston 
was  a  charlatan,  Miss  Avies  a  humbug,  his  sister  a  fool,  his  father 
a  dreamer,  Crashaw  a  fanatic,  did  that  mean  that  the  power  behind 
them  all  was  sham?  Was  that  force  that  he  had  felt  when  he 
was  a  child  simply  eager  superstition?  What  was  behind  this 
street,  this  moon,  these  hurrying  figures,  his  own  daily  life  and 
thoughts?  Was  there  really  a  vast  conspiracy,  a  huge  involving 
plot  moving  under  the  cardboard  surface  of  the  world,  a  plot  that 
he  had  by  an  accident  of  birth  spied  upon  and  discovered? 

Always,  every  day  now,  thoughts,  suspicions,  speculations  were 
coming  upon  him,  uninvited,  undesired,  from  somewhere,  from 
some  one.  He  did  not  want  them — he  wanted  only  the  material 
physical  life  of  the  ordinary  man.  It  must  be  because  he  was 
idling.  He  would  get  work  at  once,  join  with  some  one  in  the 
City,  go  abroad  again  .  .  .  but  perhaps  even  then  he  would  not 
escape.  Thoughts  like  those  of  the  last  weeks  did  not  depend  for 
their  urgency  on  place  or  time.  And  Maggie,  she  was  mixed  up 
in  it  all.  He  was  aware,  as  he  hesitated  before  opening  the  door, 
of  the  strangest  feeling  of  belonging  to  her,  not  love,  nor  passion, 
not  sentiment  even.  Only  as  though  he  had  suddenly  realised  that 
with  new  perils  he  had  received  also  new  protection. 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  173 

He  went  upstairs  with  a  feeling  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of 
events  that  would  change  his  whole  world. 

As  Martin  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  black  crooked  staircase 
he  was  conscious,  as  though  it  had  been  shown  him  in  a  vision, 
that  he  was  on  the  edge  of  some  scene  that  might  shape  for 
him  the  whole  course  of  his  future  life.  He  had  been  aware,  once 
or  twice  before,  of  such  a  premonition,  and,  as  with  most  men,  half 
of  him  had  rejected  and  half  of  him  received  the  warning.  To- 
day, however,  there  were  reasons  enough  for  thinking  this  no  mere 
baseless  superstition.  With  Maggie,  with  his  father,  with  his 
sister,  with  his  own  life  the  decision  had  got  to  be  taken,  and  it 
was  with  an  abrupt  determination  that  he  would  end,  at  all  costs, 
the  fears  and  uncertainties  of  these  last  weeks  that  he  pushed 
back  the  hall-door  and  entered.  He  noticed  at  once  strange  gar- 
ments hanging  on  the  rack  and  a  bright  purple  umbrella  which 
belonged,  as  he  knew,  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Alweed,  a  friend  of  his 
mother's  and  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Chapel,  stiff  and  assertive 
in  the  umbrella-stand.  There  was  a  tea-party  apparently.  Well, 
he  could  not  face  that  immediately.  He  would  have  to  go  in  after- 
wards   .   .   .    meanwhile    .    .   . 

He  turned  down  the  passage,  pushed  back  his  father's  door  and 
entered.  He  paused  abruptly  in  the  doorway;  there,  standing  in 
front  of  the  window  facing  him,  his  pale  chin  in  the  air,  his  legs 
apart,  supercilious  and  self-confident,  stood  Thurston.  His  father's 
desk  was  littered  with  papers,  rustling  and  blowing  a  little  in  the 
breeze  from  the  window  that  was  never  perfectly  closed. 

One  candle,  on  the  edge  of  the  desk,  its  flame  swaying  in  the 
air  was  the  only  light.  Martin's  first  impulse  was  to  turn  abruptly 
back  again  and  go  up  to  his  room.  He  could  not  speak  to  that 
fellow  now,  he  could  notl  He  half  turned.  Then  something 
stopped  him: 

■  Halloo!  "  he  said.     "  Where's  father? " 

M  Don't  know,"  said  Thurston,  sucking  the  words  through  his 
teeth.    "  I've  been  wanting  him  too." 

"  Well,  as  he  isn't  here "  said  Martin  fiercely. 

"No  use  me  waiting?  Quite  so.  All  the  same  I'm  going  to 
wait." 

The  two  figures  were  strangely  contrasted,  Martin  red-brown 
with  health,  thick  and  square,  Thurston  pale  with  a  spotted  com- 
plexion, dim  and  watery  eyes,  legs  and  arms  like  sticks,  his  black 
clothes  shabby  and  his  boots  dusty. 

Nevertheless  at  that  moment  it  was  Thurston  who  had  the 
power.    He  moved  forward  from  the  window. 


174  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Makes  you  fair  sick  to  see  me  anywhere  about  the  'ouse, 
doesn't  it?  Oh,  I  know.  .  .  .  You  can't  kid  me.  I've  seen 
from  the  first.    You  fair  loathe  the  sight  of  me." 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Martin  uneasily.  "  Whether 
we  like  one  another  or  not,  there's  no  need  to  discuss  it." 

"Oh,  isn't  there?"  said  Thurston,  coming  a  little  closer  so 
that  he  was  standing  now  directly  under  the  light  of  the  candle. 
"  Why  not  ?  Why  shouldn't  we  ?  What's  the  'arm  ?  I  believe  in 
discussing  things  myself.  I  do  really.  I've  said  to  myself  a  long 
way  back,  '  Well,  now,  the  first  time  I  get  'im  alone  I'll  ask  him 
why  'e  does  dislike  me.  I've  always  been  civil  to  him,'  I  says  to 
myself, '  and  yet  I  can't  please  him — so  I'll  just  ask  him  straight.'  " 

Martin  shrugged  his  shoulders;  he  wanted  to  leave  the  room, 
but  something  in  Thurston  held  him  there. 

"  I  suppose  we  aren't  the  sort  to  get  on  together.  We  haven't 
got  enough  in  common,"  he  said  clumsily. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Thurston  said  in  a  friendly  conver- 
sational tone.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we've  got  more  in  common 
than  you'd  fancy.  Now  I'll  tell  you  right  out,  I  like  you.  I've 
always  liked  you,  and  what's  more  I  always  shall.  Whatever  you 
do " 

**  I  don't  care,"  broke  in  Martin  angrily,  "  whether  you  like  me 
or  not." 

"  No,  I  know  you  don't,"  Thurston  continued  quietly.  "  And 
I  know  what  you  think  of  me,  too.  This  is  your  idea  of  me,  I 
reckon — that  I'm  a  pushing,  uneducated  common  bounder  that's 
just  using  this  religious  business  to  shove  himself  along  with; 
that's  kidding  all  these  poor  old  ladies  that  'e  believes  in  their 
bunkum,  and  is  altogether  about  as  low-down  a  fellow  as  you're 
likely  to  meet  with.    That's  about  the  colour  of  it,  isn't  it  ? " 

Martin  said  nothing.    That  was  exactly  "  the  colour  of  it." 

"  Yes,  well,"  Thurston  continued,  a  faint  flush  on  his  pale  cheeks. 
"  Of  course  I  know  that  all  right.  And  I'll  tell  you  the  idea  that 
I  might  'ave  of  you — only  might  'ave,  mind  you.  Why,  that  you're 
a  stuck-up  ignorant  sort  of  feller,  that's  been  rolling  up  and  down 
all  over  Europe,  gets  a  bit  of  money,  comes  over  and  bullies  his 
father,  thinks  'e  knows  better  than  every  one  about  things  'e 
knows  nothing  about  whatever " 

"  Look  here,  Thurston,"  Martin  interrupted,  stepping  forward. 
"  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  a  twopenny  curse  what  a  man  like " 

"I  only  said  might,  mind  you,"  said  Thurston,  smiling.  "It's 
only  a  short-sighted  fool  would  think  that  of  you  really.  And  I'm 
not  a  fool.    No,  really,  I'm  not.     I've  got  quite  another  idea  of 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  175 

you.  My  idea  is  that  you're  one  of  us  whether  you  want  to  be 
or  not,  and  that  you  always  will  be  one  of  us.  That's  why  I  like 
you  and  will  be  a  friend  to  you  too." 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  your  damned  friendship,"  Martin  cried. 
"  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you  or  your  opinion  or 
your  plans  or  anything  else." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Thurston.  "  I  quite  understand.  It's 
natural  enough  to  feel  as  you  do.  But  I'm  afraid  you'll  'ave  to 
'ave  something  to  do  with  me.  I'm  not  quite  what  you  think  me, 
and  you're  not  quite  what  you  think  yourself.  There's  two  of 
each  of  us,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  I  may  be  a  sham  and  a  charlatan, 
one  part  of  me,  I  don't  know  I'm  sure.  I  certainly  don't  believe 
all  your  governor  does.  I  don't  believe  all  I  say  and  I  don't  say  all 
I  think.  But  then  'oo  does?  You  don't  yourself.  I'll  even  tell 
you  straight  out  that  when  I  just  came  into  the  business  I  laughed 
at  the  lot  of  'em,  your  father  and  all.  '  A  silly  lot  o'  softs  they 
are,'  I  said  to  myself,  *  to  believe  all  that  nonsense.'  But  now — 
I  don't  know.  When  you've  been  at  this  game  a  bit  you  scarcely 
know  what  you  do  believe,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  There  may  be 
something  in  it  after  all.  Sometimes  .  .  .  well,  it  'ud  surprise 
you  if  you'd  seen  all  the  things  I  have.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  ghosts 
and  spirits  and  all  that  kind  of  nonsense.  No,  but  the  kind  of 
thing  that  'appens  to  people  you'd  never  expect.  You're  getting 
caught  into  it  yourself ;  I've  watched  you  all  along.  But  that  isn't 
the  point.  The  point  is  that  I'm  not  so  bad  as  you  think,  nor  so 
simple  neither.  And  life  isn't  so  simple,  nor  religion,  nor  love,  nor 
anything  as  you  think  it.  You're  young  yet,  you  know.  Very 
young." 

Martin  turned  back  to  the  door. 

"  All  very  interesting,  Thurston,"  he  said.  "  You  can  think 
what  you  like,  of  course.  All  the  same,  the  less  we  see  of  one 
another " 

"  Well,"  said  Thurston  slowly,  smiling.  "  That'll  be  a  bit  diffi- 
cult— to  avoid  one  another,  I  mean.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  marry 
your  sister." 

Martin  laughed.  Inside  him  something  was  saying :  "  Now,  look 
Out.  This  is  all  a  trap.  He  doesn't  mean  what  he  says.  He's 
trying  to  catch  you." 

"Going  to  marry  Amy?    Oh  no,  you're  not." 

Thurston  did  not  appear  to  be  interested  in  anything  that  Martin 
had  to  say.  He  continued  as  though  he  were  pursuing  his  own 
thoughts.  "Yes  ...  so  it'll  be  difficult.  I  didn't  think  you'd 
like  it  when  you  heard.    I  said  to  Amy,  '  'E  won't  like  it,'  I  said. 


176  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  said  you'd  been  too  long  away  from  the  family  to  judge.  And 
so  you  have,  you  know.  Oh!  Amy  and  I'll  be  right  enough. 
She's  a  fine  woman,  your  sister." 

Martin  burst  out : 

"  Well,  then,  that  settles  it.  It  simply  settles  it.  That  finishes 
it." 

u  Finishes  what  ? "  asked  Thurston,  smiling  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  Never  you  mind.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  you.  Has  my  father 
consented  ? " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  said  all  'e  wanted  was  for  Amy  to  be  'appy.  And 
so  she  will  be.  I'll  look  after  her.  You'll  come  round  to  it  in 
time." 

"  Father  agrees.  .  .  .  My  God !  But  it's  impossible !  Don't 
you  see?    Don't  you  see?    I    .    .   ." 

The  sudden  sense  of  his  impotence  called  back  his  words.  He 
felt  nothing  but  rage  and  indignation  against  the  whole  set  of 
them,  against  the  house  they  were  in,  the  very  table  with  the 
papers  blowing  upon  it  and  the  candle  shining.  .  .  .  Well,  it 
made  his  own  affair  more  simple — that  was  certain.  He  must  be 
off — right  away  from  them  all.  Stay  in  the  house  with  that  fellow 
for  a  brother-in-law?    Stay  when  .    .    . 

*  It's  all  right,"  said  Thurston,  moistening  his  pale  dry  lips  with 
his  tongue.  *  You'll  see  it  in  time.  It's  the  best  thing  that  could 
'appen.  And  we've  got  more  in  common  than  you'd  ever  sup- 
pose. We  'ave,  really.  You're  a  religious  man,  really — can't  escape 
'your  destiny,  you  know.  There's  religious  and  non-religious  anc 
it  doesn't  matter  what  your  creed  is,  whether  you're  a  Christian  or 
a  'Ottentot,  there  it  is.  And  if  you're  religious,  you're  religious.  I 
may  be  the  greatest  humbug  on  the  market,  but  I'm  religious.  It's 
like  'aving  a  'are  lip — you'll  be  bothered  with  it  all  your  life." 

But  what  more  Thurston  may  have  said  Martin  did  not  hear: 
he  had  left  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  him.  On  what  was 
his  indignation  based?  Injured  pride.  And  was  he  really  indig- 
nant? Was  not  something  within  him  elated,  because  by  this  he 
had  been  offered  his  freedom?  Thurston  marry  his  sister?  .  .  . 
He  could  go  his  own  way  now.  Even  his  father  could  not  expect 
him  to  remain. 

And  he  wanted  Maggie — urgently,  passionately.  Standing  for 
a  moment  there  in  the  dark  passage  he  wanted  her.  He  was  lonely, 
disregarded,  despised. 

They  did  not  care  for  him  here,  no  one  cared  for  him  anywhere 
— only  Maggie  who  was  clear-eyed  and  truthful  and  sure  beyond 
any  human  being  whom  he  had  ever  known. 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  177 

Then,  with  a  very  youthful  sense  of  challenging  this  world  that 
had  so  grossly  insulted  him  by  admitting  Thurston  into  the  heart 
of  it,  he  joined  the  tea-party.  There  in  the  pink,  close,  sugar- 
smelling,  soft  atmosphere  sat  his  mother,  Amy,  Mrs.  Alweed  and 
little  Miss  Pyncheon.  His  mother,  with  her  lace  cap  and  white 
hair  and  soft  plump  hands,  was  pouring  tea  through  a  strainer 
as  though  it  were  a  rite.  On  her  plate  were  three  little  frilly 
papers  that  had  held  sugary  cakes,  on  her  lips  were  fragments 
of  sugar.  Amy,  in  an  ugly  grey  dress,  sat  severely  straight  upon 
a  hard  chair  and  was  apparently  listening  to  Miss  Pyncheon,  but 
her  eyes,  suspicious  and  restless,  moved  like  the  eyes  of  a  newly 
captured  animal.  Mrs.  Alweed,  stout  in  pink  with  a  large  hat  full 
of  roses,  smiled  and  smiled,  waiting  only  for  a  moment  when  she 
could  amble  off  once  again  into  space  safe  on  the  old  broad  back  of 
her  family  experiences,  the  only  conversational  steed  to  whose  care 
she  ever  entrusted  herself.  She  had  a  son  Hector,  a  husband, 
Mr.  Alweed,  and  a  sister-in-law,  Miss  Alweed;  she  had  the  greatest 
confidence  in  the  absorbed  attention  of  the  slightest  of  her  ac- 
quaintances. "  Hector,  he's  my  boy,  you  know — although  why  I 
call  him  a  boy  I  can't  think — because  he's  twenty-two  and  a  half — 
he's  at  Cambridge,  Christs  College — well,  this  morning  I  had  a  let- 
ter .  .  ."  she  would  begin.  She  began  now  upon  Martin.  His  mind 
wandered.  He  looked  about  the  little  room  and  thought  of  Thurston. 
Why  was  he  not  more  angry  about  it  all?  He  had  pretended  to 
be  indignant,  he  had  hated  Thurston  as  he  stood  there.  .  .  . 
But  had  he?  Half  of  him  hated  him.  Then  with  a  jerk  Thurs- 
ton's words  came  back  to  him:  "  There's  two  of  each  of  us.  that's 
the  truth  of  it."  "Two  of  each  of  us.  .  .  ."  Sitting  there, 
listening  to  Mrs.  Alweed's  voice  that  flowed  like  a  river  behind 
him,  he  saw  the  two  figures,  saw  them  quite  clearly  and  distinctly, 
flesh  and  blood,  even  clothes  and  voices  and  smile.  And  he  knew 
that  all  his  life  these  two  figures  had  been  growing,  waiting  for 
the  moment  when  he  would  recognise  them.  One  figure  was  the 
Martin  whom  he  knew — brown,  healthy,  strong  and  sane;  a  figure 
wearing  his  clothes,  his  own  clothes,  the  tweeds  and  the  cloths, 
the  brogues  and  the  heavy  boots,  the  soft  untidy  hats;  the  figure 
was  hard,  definite,  resolute,  quarrelling,  arguing,  loving,  joking, 
swearing  all  in  the  sensible  way.  It  was  a  figure  that  all  the 
world  had  understood,  that  had  been  drunk  often  enough,  lent 
other  men  money,  been  hard-up  and  extravagant  and  thoughtless. 
•  A  good  chap."  "  A  sensible  fellow."  "  A  pal."  "  No  flies  on 
Warlock."  That  was  the  kind  of  figure.  And  the  life  had  been 
physical,  had  never  asked  questions,  had  never  known  morbidity, 


178  THE  CAPTIVES 

had  lived  on  what  it  saw  and  could  touch  and  could  break.  .  .  . 
And  the  other  figure!  That  was,  physically,  less  plainly  seen. 
No,  there  it  was,  standing  a  little  away  from  the  other,  standing 
away,  contemptuously,  despising  it,  deriding  it.  Fat,  soft,  white 
hanging  cheeks,  wearing  anything  to  cover  its  body,  but  shining 
in  some  way  through  the  clothes,  so  that  it  was  body  that  you  saw. 
A  soft  body,  hands  soft  and  the  colour  of  the  flesh  pale  and  un- 
healthy. But  it  was  the  eyes  that  spoke:  the  mouth  trembled  and 
was  weak,  the  chin  was  fat  and  feeble,  but  the  eyes  lived,  lived — 
were  eager,  fighting,  beseeching,  longing,  captive  eyes! 

And  this  figure,  Martin  knew,  was  a  prey  to  every  morbid  desire, 
rushed  to  sensual  excess  and  then  crept  back  miserably  to  search 
for  some  spiritual  flagellation.  Above  all,  it  was  restless,  as  some 
one  presses  round  a  dark  room  searching  for  the  lock  of  the  door, 
restless  and  lonely,  cowardly  and  selfish,  but  searching  and  sensi- 
tive and  even  faithful,  faithful  to  something  or  to  some  one  .  .  . 
pursued  also  by  something  or  some  one.  A  figure  to  whom  this 
world  offered  only  opportunities  for  sin  r.nd  failure  and  defeat, 
but  a  figure  to  whom  this  world  was  the  merest  shadow  hiding, 
as  a  shade  hides  a  lamp,  the  life  within.  Wretched  enough  with 
its  bad  health,  its  growing  corpulence,  its  weak  mouth,  its  furtive 
desires,  but  despising,  nevertheless,  the  strong,  healthy  figure  be- 
.side  it.  Thurston  was  right.  Men  are  not  born  to  be  free,  but""") 
to  fight,  to  the  very  death,  for  the  imprisonment  and  destruction  / 
of  all  that  is  easiest  and  most  physically  active  and  most  pleasant  j 
to  the  sight  and  touch.    .    .    . 

"And  so  Hector  really  hopes  that  he'll  be  able  to  get  down 
to  us  for  Christmas,  although  he's  been  asked  to  go  on  this  read- 
ing party.  Of  course,  it's  simply  a  question  as  to  whether  he 
works  better  at  home  or  with  his  friends.  If  he  were  a  weak  char- 
acter, I  think  Mr.  Alweed  would  insist  in  his  coming  home,  but 
Hector  really  cares  for  his  work  more  than  anything.  He's  never 
been  very  good  at  games;  his  short  sight  prevents  him,  poor  boy, 
and  as  he  very  justly  remarked,  when  he  was  home  last  holidays, 
'  I  don't  see,  mother,  how  I  am  going  to  do  my  duty  as  a  solicitor 
(that's  what  he  hopes  to  be)  if  I  don't  work  now.  Many  men 
regard  Cambridge  as  a  time  for  play.    Not  so  I.' 

"  But  I  hope  that  if  Hector  comes  home  this  Christmas  he'll 
attend  the  Chapel  services.  The  influence  your  father  might  have 
on  such  a  boy  as  Hector,  Mr.  Warlock,  a  boy,  sensitive  and 
thoughtful.    ...    I  was  saying,  Miss  Pyncheon,  that  Hector " 

Miss  Pyncheon  was  the  soul  of  good-nature — but  she  was  much 
more  than  that.     She  was  by  far  the  most  sensible,  genial,  and 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  179 

worldly  of  the  Inside  Saints;  it  was,  in  fact,  astonishing  that  she 
should  be  an  Inside  Saint  at  all. 

Of  them  all  she  impressed  Martin  the  most,  because  there  was 
nothing  of  the  crank  about  her.  She  went  to  theatres,  to  the 
seaside  in  the  summer,  took  in  The  Queen,  and  was  a  subscriber 
to  Boots'  Circulating  Library.  She  dressed  quietly  and  in  excel- 
lent taste — in  grey  or  black  and  white.  She  had  jolly  brown  eyes 
and  a  dimple  in  the  middle  of  her  chin.  She  was  ready  to  discuss 
any  question  with  any  one,  was  marvellously  broad-minded  and 
tolerant,  and  although  she  was  both  poor  and  generous,  always 
succeeded  in  making  her  little  flat  in  Soho  Square  pretty  and  at- 
tractive. 

Her  chief  fault,  perhaps,  was  that  she  cared  for  no  one  es- 
pecially— she  had  neither  lovers  nor  parents  nor  sisters  nor 
brothers,  and  to  all  her  friends  she  behaved  with  the  same  kind 
geniality,  welcoming  one  as  another.  She  was  thus  aloof  from 
them  all  and  relied  upon  no  one.  The  centre  of  her  life  was, 
of  course,  her  religion,  but  of  this  she  never  spoke,  although 
strangely  enough  no  one  doubted  the  intensity  of  her  belief  and 
the  reality  of  her  devotion. 

She  was  a  determined  follower  of  Mr.  Warlock;  what  he  said 
she  believed,  but  here,  too,  there  seemed  to  be  no  personal  attach- 
ment. She  did  not  allow  criticism  of  him  in  her  own  presence, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  never  spoke  as  though  it  would  distress 
her  very  greatly  to  lose  him.  He  was  a  sign,  a  symbol.  ...  If 
one  symbol  went  another  could  be  found. 

To  Martin  she  was  the  one  out-standing  proof  of  the  reality 
of  the  Chapel.  All  the  others — his  sister,  Miss  Avies,  Thurston. 
Crashaw,  the  Miss  Cardinals,  yes,  and  his  father  too,  were,  in 
one  way  or  another,  eccentric,  abnormal,  but  Miss  Pyncheon  was 
the  sane  every-day  world,  the  worldly  world,  the  world  of  drinks 
and  dinners,  and  banks  and  tobacconists,  and  yet  she  believed  as 
profoundly  as  any  of  them.  What  did  she  believe?  She  was  an 
Inside  Saint,  therefore  she  must  have  accepted  this  whole  story 
of  the  Second  Coming  and  the  rest  of  it.  Of  course  women  would 
believe  anything.    .    .    .    Nevertheless    .    .    . 

He  scarcely  listened  to  their  chatter.  He  was  forcing  himself 
not  to  look  at  his  sister,  and  yet  Thurston's  news  seemed  so  ex- 
traordinary to  him  that  his  eye  kept  stealing  round  to  her  to  see 
whether  she  were  still  the  same.  Could  she  have  accepted  him. 
that  bounder  and  cad  and  charlatan?  He  felt  a  sudden  cold  chill 
of  isolation  as  though  in  this  world  none  of  the  ordinary  laws  were 
followed.    "  By  God,  I  am  a  stranger  here,"  he  thought. 


( 


180  THE  CAPTIVES 

It  was  not  until  after  dinner  that  night  that  he  was  alone  with 
his  father.  He  had  resolved  on  many  fine  things  in  the  interval. 
He  was  going  to  "  have  it  out  with  him,"  "  to  put  his  foot  down," 
"  to  tell  him  that  such  a  thing  as  Thurston's  marriage  to  his  sister 
was  perfectly  impossible."  And  then,  for  the  thousandth  time 
since  his  return  to  England  he  felt  strangely  weak  and  irresolute. 
He  did  wish  to  be  "  firm  "  with  his  father,  but  it  would  have  been 
so  much  easier  to  be  firm  had  he  not  been  so  fond  of  him.  "  Soft, 
sentimental  weakness,"  he  called  it  to  himself,  but  he  knew  that 
it  was  something  deeper  than  that,  something  that  he  would  never 
be  able  to  deny. 

He  went  into  his  father's  study  that  night  with  a  strange  dismal 
foreboding  as  though  he  were  being  drawn  along  upon  some  path 
that  he  did  not  want  to  follow.  What  was  his  father  mixed  up 
with  all  this  business  for?  Why  were  such  men  as  Thurston  in 
existence?  Why  couldn't  life  be  simple  and  straightforward  with 
people  like  his  father  and  himself  and  that  girl  Maggie  alone  some- 
where with  nothing  to  interfere?  Life  was  never  just  as  you7 
wanted  it,  always  a  little  askew,  a  little  twisted,  cynically  cocking/ 
its  eye  at  you  before  it  vanished  round  the  corner?  He  didn't 
seem  to  be  able  to  manage  it.  Anyway,  he  wasn't  going  to  have 
that  fellow  Thurston  marrying  his  sister. 

He  found  his  father  lying  back  in  his  arm-chair  fast  asleep, 
looking  like  a  dead  man,  his  long  thin  face  pale  with  fatigue,  his 
eyelids  a  dull  grey,  his  mouth  tightly  closed  as  though  in  a  grim 
determination  to  pursue  some  battle.  And  at  the  sight  of  him 
thus  worn  out  and  beaten  Martin's  affection  flooded  his  heart.  He 
stood  opposite  his  father  looking  at  him  and  loving  him  more 
deeply  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

"  I  will  take  him  away  from  all  this,"  was  his  thought,  "  these 
Thurstons  and  all — out  of  all  this.  .  .  .  We'll  go  off  abroad 
somewhere.    And  I'll  make  him  fat  and  happy." 

Then  his  father  suddenly  woke  up,  with  a  start  and  a  cry : 

"  Where  ami?"  .  .  .  Then  he  suddenly  saw  Martin.  "  Mar- 
tin," he  said,  smiling. 

Martin  smiled  back  and  then  began  at  once :  "  Father,  this  isn't 
true  about  Thurston,  is  it?" 

He  saw,  as  he  had  often  done  before,  that  his  father  had  to 
call  himself  up  from  some  world  of  vision  before  he  could  realise 
even  his  surroundings.  Martin  he  recognised  intuitively  with 
the  recognition  of  the  spirit,  but  he  seemed  to  take  in  the  details 
of  the  room  slowly,  one  by  one,  as  though  blinded  by  the  light. 

"  Ah — I've  been  dreaming,"  he  said,   still  smiling  at  Martin 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  181 

helplessly  and  almost  timidly.  "I'm  so  tired  these  days — sud- 
denly— I  usen't  to  be.  ..."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
then  laid  it  on  Martin's  knee,  and  the  strength  and  warmth  of  that 
seemed  suddenly  to  fill  him  with  vigour. 

"  You're  never  tired,  are  you  ? "  he  asked  as  a  child  might  ask 
an  elder. 

u  Very  seldom,"  answered  Martin,  "  I  say,  father,  what  is  all 
this  about  Thurston  ? " 

"  Thurston.    .   .   .    Why,  what's  he  been  doing  ?  " 

"  He  says  he's  engaged  to  Amy."  The  disgust  of  the  idea  made 
Martin's  words,  against  his  will,  sharp  and  angry. 

"  Does  he  ?    .    .    .    Yes,  I  remember.    He  spoke  to  me  about  it." 

"  Of  course  it's  simply  his  infernal  cheek    ..." 

Mr.  Warlock  sighed.  "  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Amy  seemed  to 
wish  it." 

Martin  felt  then  more  strongly  than  before  the  Something  that 
drove  him.  It  said  to  him :  "  Now,  then  .  .  .  here's  a  thing 
for  you  to  make  a  row  about — a  big  row.  And  then  you  can  go 
off  with  Maggie."  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  Something 
that  said :  "  Don't  hurt  him.  Don't  hurt  him.  You  may  regret  it 
all  your  life  if    .    .    ." 

If  what?  He  didn't  know.  He  was  always  threatened  with  re- 
gretting things  all  his  life.  The  blow  was  always  going  to  fall. 
And  that  pleasant  very  British  phrase  came  back  to  him,  "  He 
would  put  his  foot  down" — however — he  was  very  angry — very 
angry. 

He  burst  out :  "  Oh,  but  that's  absurd,  father.  Impossible — 
utterly.  Thurston  in  the  family?  Why,  you  must  see  yourself 
how  monstrous  it  would  be.  Amy's  got  some  silly,  sentimental 
whim  and  she's  got  to  be  told  that  it  won't  do.  If  you  ask  me, 
I  don't  think  Amy's  improved  much  since  I  was  away.  But  that's 
not  the  question.  The  idea  of  Thurston's  disgusting.  You  can't 
seriously  consider  it  for.  a  minute    ..." 

"  Why  is  Thurston  disgusting,  my  boy?  " 

Martin  hated  to  be  called  "  my  boy  " — it  made  him  feel  so  young 
and  dependent. 

"  You've  only  got  to  look  at  him ! "  Martin  jumped  up,  dis- 
regarding his  father's  hand,  and  began  to  stamp  about  the  room. 
"  He's  a  cad — he's  not  your  friend,  father.  He  isn't,  really.  He'd 
like  to  out  you  from  the  whole  thing  if  he  could.  He  thinks  you're 
old-fashioned  and  behind  the  times,  and  all  he  thinks  about  is 
bringing  in  subscriptions  and  collecting  new  converts.  He's  like 
one  of  those  men  who  beat  drums  outside  tents  in  a  fair.  .   .   . 


182  THE  CAPTIVES 

He's  a  sickening  man !  He  doesn't  believe  in  his  religion  or  any- 
thing else.  I  should  think  he's  crooked  about  money,  and  immoral 
probably  too.  You're  much  too  innocent,  father.  You're  so  good 
and  trustful  yourself  that  you  don't  know  how  these  fellows  are 
doing  you  in.  There's  a  regular  plot  against  you  and  they'd  be 
most  awfully  pleased  if  you  were  to  retire.  They're  not  genuine 
like  you.  They  simply  use  the  Chapel  for  self-advertisement  and 
making  money.  Of  course  there  are  some  genuine  ones  like  the 
Miss  Cardinals,  but  Thurston's   an   absolute  swindler.    ..." 

He  stopped  short  at  that.  He  had  said  more  than  he  had 
intended  and  he  was  frightened  suddenly.  He  swung  round  on 
his  heel  and  looked  at  his  father. 

"  Come  here,  Martin."  He  came  across  the  room.  "  Closer. 
Now,  tell  me.    We're  good  friends,  aren't  we  ? " 

"  Of  course,  father." 

He  put  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder.  "  Do  you  know  that 
I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  the  whole  world?  More,  I'm 
sometimes  terribly  afraid,  than  God  Himself.  I  can't  help  myself. 
I  love  you,  Martin,  so  that  it's  like  hunger  or  thirst.  .  .  .  It's 
the  only  earthly  passion  that  I've  ever  had.  And  I'll  tell  you 
another  thing.  It's  the  one  terror  of  my  earthly  life  that  you'll 
leave  me.  Now  that  I've  got  you  back  I'm  afraid  every  time  you 
go  out  of  the  house  that  you'll  run  away,  round  the  corner,  and 
never  come  back  again.  I  love  you  and  I'm  not  going  to  let  you 
go  again. — Not  until — until — the  Time  has  come.  .  .  .  What 
does  it  matter  to  you  and  me  what  Thurston  and  Amy  do?  God 
will  come  and  He  will  find  us  both  together — you  and  I — and  He 
will  take  us  up  and  keep  us  together  and  we  shall  never  be 
separated  any  more.  ...  I  love  your  strength,  Martin,  your 
happiness,  your  youth — all  the  things  I've  never  had.  And  you're 
not  going  to  leave  me,  not  though  Amy  married  a  hundred  Thurs- 
tons.    ..." 

Mr.  Warlock's  grip  on  his  son's  shoulder  was  iron. 

Martin  bent  down  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  dusty  leather  chair 
to  bring  himself  on  to  the  same  level.  He  put  his  arm  round  his 
father  and  drew  him  close  to  him.  Maggie,  Life,  Money,  Adven- 
ture— everything  seemed  to  draw  away  from  him  and  he  saw  him- 
self, a  little  boy,  pattering  on  bare  feet  down  the  aisle  towards  the 
font — just  as  though  a  spell  had  been  cast  over  him. 

They  sat  close  together  in  silence.  Then  slowly  the  thought  of 
Thurston  came  back  again.    Martin  drew  away  a  little. 

"  All  the  same,  father,"  he  said,  "  Thurston  mustn't  marry 
Amy." 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  183 

"  They're  only  engaged.     There's  no  question  of  marriage  yet." 

"  Then  they  are  engaged  ? "  Martin  drew  right  away,  standing 
up  again. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they're  engaged." 

"  Then  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it.  I  tell  you  I  won't  stay  here 
if  Thurston  marries  Amy." 

Mr.  Warlock  sighed.  "  Well  then,  let's  leave  it,  my  boy.  I  dare- 
say they'll  never  marry." 

"  No.    I  won't  have  it.    It's  too  serious  to  leave." 

His  father's  voice  was  sharper  suddenly. 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  just  now,  Martin,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

u  But  I  must.  You  can't  leave  a  thing  like  that.  Thurston  will 
simply  own  the  place.    ..." 

"  I  tell  you,  Martin,  to  leave  it  alone."  They  were  both  angry 
now. 

"  And  I  tell  you,  father,  that  if  you  let  Thurston  marry  Amy 
I  leave  the  house  and  never  come  back  again." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  selfish  of  you  ?  You've  been  away  all  these 
years.  You've  left  us  to  ourselves.  You  come  back  suddenly 
without  seeing  how  we  live  or  caring  and  then  you  dictate  to  us 
what  we're  to  do.    How  can  you  expect  us  to  listen  ? " 

"And  how  can  you  expect  me  to  stay?"  Martin  broke  into 
a  torrent  of  words :  "  I'm  miserable  here  and  you  know  that  I 
am.  Mother  and  Amy  hate  me  and  you're  always  wrapped  up  in 
your  religion.  What  kind  of  a  place  is  it  for  a  fellow?  I  came 
back  meaning  that  you  and  I  should  be  the  best  pals  father  and  son 
have  ever  been,  but  you  wouldn't  come  out  with  me — you  only 
wanted  to  drag  me  in.  You  tell  me  always  to  wait  for  something. 
To  wait  for  what?  I  don't  know.  And  nobody  here  does  seem 
to  know.  And  I  can't  wait  for  ever.  I've  got  to  lead  my  own 
life  and  if  you  won't  come  with  me  I  must  go  off  by  myself " 

He  was  following  his  own  ideas  now — not  looking  at  his  father 
at  all.  "  I've  discovered  since  I've  been  home  that  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  settle  down.  I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  wandering 
about  all  my  days.  I'm  not  proud  of  myself,  you  know,  father. 
I  don't  seem  to  be  much  good  to  any  one,  but  the  trouble  is  I  don't 
want  to  be  much  better.  I  feel  as  though  it  wouldn't  be  much 
good  if  I  did  try.  I  can't  give  up  my  own  life — for  nobody — 
not  even  for  you — and  however  rotten  my  own  life  is  I'd  rather 
lead  it  than  some  one  else's." 

He  stopped  and  then  went  on  quietly,  as  though  he  were  argu- 
ing something  out  with  himself :  "  The  strange  thing  is  that  I 


184  THE  CAPTIVES 

do  feel  this  place  has  got  a  kind  of  a  hold  on  me.  When  you  re- 
mind me  of  what  I  was  like  as  a  kid  I  go  right  back  and  feel 
helpless  as  though  you  could  do  anything  with  me  you  like.  All 
the  same  I  don't  believe  in  this  business,  father — all  this  Second 
Coming  and  the  rest  of  it.  We're  in  the  Twentieth  Century  now, 
you  know,  and  everybody  knows  that  that  kind  of  thing  is  simply 
impossible.  Only  an  old  maid  or  two  .  .  .  Why,  I  don't  believe 
you  believe  in  it  really,  father.  That's  why  you're  so  keen  on 
making  me  believe.  But  I  don't;  it's  no  use.  You  can't  make  me. 
I  don't  believe  there's  any  God  at  all.  If  there  were  a  God  he'd 
let  a  fellow  have  more  free  will.    ..." 

He  was  interrupted  by  an  extraordinary  cry.  He  turned  to 
see  his  father  standing,  one  hand  pressed  back  on  the  chair,  his 
face  white,  his  eyes  black  and  empty,  like  sightless  eyes. 

"  Martin !  That's  blasphemy !  .  .  .  Take  care !  Take  care ! 
.    .    .    Oh,  my  son,  my  son!    ..." 

Then  he  suddenly  collapsed  backwards,  crouching  on  to  the 
chair  as  though  he  were  trying  to  flee  from  some  danger.  Martin 
sprang  towards  him.  He  caught  him  round  the  body,  holding 
him  to  him — something  was  leaping  like  a  furious  animal  inside 
his  father's  breast. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  cried,  desperately  frightened. 

"It's  my  heart,"  Warlock  answered  in  a  voice  very  soft  and 
distant.  "Bad  .  .  .  Excitement  .  .  .  Ring  that  bell  .  .  . 
Amy    .    .   ." 

A  moment  later  Amy  entered.  She  came  quickly  into  the  room, 
she  said  nothing — only  gave  Martin  one  look. 

She  gave  her  father  something  from  a  little  bottle,  kneeling 
in  front  of  him. 

At  last  she  turned  to  her  brother.  "  You'd  better  go,"  she  said. 
"You  can  do  nothing  here." 

Miserable,  repentant,  feeling  as  though  he  had  no  place  in  the 
world  and  yet  eager  too  to  defend  himself,  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 

MAGGIE  had  a  week. 
She  did  not  need  it.  From  the  first  half -hour  after  Mar- 
tin's leaving  her  her  mind  was  made  up.  This  question  of  mar- 
riage did  not,  on  further  reflection,  very  greatly  disturb  her.  She 
had  known,  in  her  time,  a  number  of  married  people  and  they  had 
been  invariably  unhappy  and  quarrelsome.  The  point  seemed 
to  be  that  you  should  be,  in  some  way,  near  the  person  whom  you 
loved,  and  she  had  only  loved  one  person  in  all  her  life,  and 
intended  never  to  love  another.  Even  this  question  of  love  was 
not  nearly  so  tangled  for  her  as  it  would  be  for  any  more  civilised 
person.  She  knew  very  little  about  marriage  and  only  in  the  most 
sordid  fashion  about  sexual  relations  which  were  definitely  con- 
nected in  her  mind  with  drunken  peasants  and  her  father's  cook. 
They  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Martin. 

The  opinion  of  the  world  was  an  unknown  factor  in  her  vision, 
she  only  knew  of  the  opinion  of  her  aunts  and  Miss  Warlock  and 
with  these  she  was  already  in  rebellion. 

She  would  have  been  in  great  trouble  had  she  supposed  that  this 
woman  still  loved  Martin  and  needed  him,  but  that,  from  what 
Martin  had  said,  was  obviously  not  so.  No,  it  was  all  quite  clear. 
They  would  escape  together,  out  of  this  tangle  of  unnatural  mys- 
teries and  warnings,  and  live  happily  for  ever  after  in  the  country. 
As  to  Martin's  self-portrait,  that  did  not  greatly  distress  her. 
She  had  never  supposed  that  he  or  any  one  else  was  "  good."  She 
had  never  known  a  "good"  person.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her,  in 
her  pristine  state  of  savagery,  that  you  loved  any  one  the  less  for 
their  drawbacks.  She  would  rather  be  with  Martin  at  his  worst 
than  with  any  one  else  at  their  best — that  was  all. 

Half-an-hour  was  enough  time  to  settle  the  whole  affair.  She 
then  waited  patiently  until  the  end  of  the  week.  She  did  not 
quite  know  how  she  would  arrange  a  meeting,  but  that  would,  she 
expected,  arrange  itself. 

Two  events  occurred  that  filled  her  mind  and  made  the  week 
pass  quickly.  One  was  that  she  received  an  answer  to  her  ad- 
venturous letter,  the  other  was  a  remarkable  conversation  with 
Miss  Caroline  Smith. 

185 


186  THE  CAPTIVES 

The  answer  to  her  letter  was  lying  on  her  plate  when  she  came 
down  to  breakfast,  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  watching  it  with  an 
excited  stare. 

It  read  as  follows : 

14  Bryanston  Square. 
Dear  Miss  Cardinal, 

Of  course  I  remember  you  perfectly.  I  wondered  whether  you 
would  write  to  me  one  day.  I  am  married  now  and  live  most  of 
the  year  in  London.  Would  you  come  and  see  me  at  Bryanston 
Square?  I  am  nearly  always  at  home  at  tea-time.  If  you  are  free 
would  you  perhaps  come  next  Friday? 
It  will  be  so  nice  to  see  you  again. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Katherine  Mark. 

"You've  got  a  letter,  dear.  Your  aunt  isn't  quite  so  well  this 
morning,  I'm   afraid.      Scrambled   eggs." 

"  Yes,"  she  looked  her  aunt  in  the  face  without  any  confusion. 
How  strangely  her  decision  about  Martin  had  altered  her  rela- 
tionship now  to  every  one!  What  did  it  matter  whether  any  one 
were  angry ?  "I  ought  to  have  told  you,  Aunt  Elizabeth.  I  wrote 
about  a  fortnight  ago  to  a  lady  who  came  once  to  see  us  at  home. 
She  was  a  Miss  Trenchard  then.  She  said  that  if  ever  I  wanted 
any  help  I  was  to  write  to  her.  So  I  have  written — to  ask  her 
whether  she  can  find  me  any  work  to  do,  and  she  has  asked  me 
to  go  and  see  her." 

"  Work,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "  But  you  won't  go  away  while 
your  aunt's  so  ill." 

Wouldn't  she?    Maggie  didn't  know  so  much  about  that. 

"  I  want  to  be  independent,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to  fix  Aunt 
Elizabeth's  eyes.    u  It  isn't  fair  that  I  should  be  a  burden  to  you." 

"  You're  no  burden,  dear."  Aunt  Elizabeth  looked  uneasily 
round  the  room.    "  Your  aunt  depends  on  you." 

"  Depends  on  me  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  everything." 

"  Then  she  oughtn't  to,  Aunt  Elizabeth,  I've  said  it  again  and 
again.  I'm  not  fit  for  any  one  to  depend  on.  I'm  forgetful  and 
careless  and  untidy.  You  know  I  am.  And  I'm  different  from 
every  one  here.  I'm  very  grateful  to  Aunt  Anne,  but  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  her  to  depend  on." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  blinked  nervously. 

"  She's  got  very  little.    You  mustn't  take  away  all  she  has." 

"  I'm  not  all  she  has,"  answered  Maggie,  knowing  that  she  was 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  187 

becoming  excited  and  cross.  "I  don't  belong  to  any  one  except 
myself."  "  And  Martin "  her  soul  whispered.  Then  she  added, 
suddenly  moved  by  remorse  as  she  looked  at  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
meek  and  trembling  face,  "You're  so  good  to  me,  both  of  you, 
and  I'm  so  bad.    I'll  give  you  anything  but  my  freedom." 

"  You  talk  so  strangely,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "  But  there 
are  so  many  things  I  don't  understand." 

Maggie  took  the  letter  up  to  her  bedroom  and  there  read  it  a 
number  of  times.  It  all  seemed  wonderful  to  her,  the  stamped 
blue  address,  the  rich  white  square  notepaper,  and  above  all  the 
beautiful  handwriting.  She  thought  of  her  own  childish  scrawl 
and  blushed,  she  even  sat  down,  there  and  then,  at  her  dressing- 
table  and,  with  a  pencil,  began  to  imitate  some  of  the  letters. 

On  Friday!  To-day  was  Tuesday.  Bryanston  Square.  Wher- 
ever was  Bryanston  Square,  and  how  would  she  find  it?  She 
determined  to  ask  Caroline  Smith. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait  for  her  opportunity.  On  Wednesday 
evening  about  half-past  five  Miss  Smith  poked  her  head  into  the 
Cardinal  drawing-room  to  discover  Maggie  sitting  with  her  hands 
on  her  lap  looking  down  on  to  the  street. 

"  Are  your  aunts  anywhere  ?  "  asked  Caroline. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie.  "  Aunt  Anne's  in  bed  and  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
at  Miss  Pyncheon's." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Caroline,  "  because  I  haven't  seen  you, 
darling,  for  ages." 

"  The  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You're  a  literal  pet,"  said  Caroline  kissing  her.  "  I  always 
exaggerate,  of  course,  and  it's  so  sweet  of  you  to  tell  me  about  it." 

She  rushed  off  to  the  fire  and  spread  out  her  blue  skirt  and 
dangled  her  feet. 

"  Isn't  it  cold  and  dark  ?  You  funny  dear,  not  to  have  the  blinds 
down  and  to  sit  staring  into  the  beastly  street  like  that.  .  .  . 
I  believe  you're  in  love." 

Maggie  came  to  herself  with  a  start,  got  up  and  slowly  went  over 
to  the  fire. 

"Caroline,  where's  Bryanston  Square?" 

"  Oh,  you  pet,  don't  you  know  where  Bryanston  Square  is  ? " 
cried  Caroline  suddenly  fixing  her  bright  eyes  upon  Maggie  with 
burning  curiosity. 

"  If  I  did  I  wouldn't  ask,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Quite  right — neither  you  would.    Well,  it's  near  Marble  Arch." 

"  But  I  don't  know  where  the  Marble  Arch  is." 

u  Lord ! "    cried    Caroline.     "  And    she's   been    in    London   for 


188  THE  CAPTIVES 

months.  You  really  are  a  pet.  Well,  what  you'd  better  do  is  to 
get  into  the  first  taxi  you  see  and  just  say  '  Bryanston  Square.' " 

How  stupid  of  her!  She  might  have  thought  of  that  for  her- 
self. 

"Is  there  a  park  near  Bryanston  Square?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.     Of  course— Hyde  Park." 

"And  is  it  open  at  six?" 

"  Of  course.    You  can't  shut  Hyde  Park." 

"Oh!" 

Maggie  pursued  her  thoughts.  Caroline  watched  her  with  in- 
tense curiosity. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  a  Park,  you  darling  ? "  she  asked 
at  last. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Maggie,  slowly.  Then  she  went  on,  laugh- 
ing :  "  I've  been  asked  out  to  tea — f or  the  first  time  in  my  life. 
And  I'm  terribly  frightened." 

"  How  exciting !  "  said  Caroline  clapping  her  hands.  "  Who's 
it  with?" 

"  It's  a  Mrs.  Mark.  She  was  a  Miss  Trenchard.  She  used  to 
live  in  Glebeshire.     She's  going  to  find  me  some  work  to  do." 

"  Work !  "  cried  Caroline.  "  Aren't  you  going  to  stay  with  your 
aunts  then  ? " 

"I  want  to  be  independent,"  said  Maggie  slowly. 

"  Well !  "  said  Caroline,  amazed. 

Could  Maggie  have  seen  just  then  into  Miss  Smith's  mind  and 
could  she  only  have  realised  that,  with  Miss  Smith,  every  action 
and  intention  in  the  human  heart  pivoted  upon  love-affairs  and 
love-affairs  only,  she  might  have  been  warned  and  have  saved  much 
later  trouble.  She  was  intent  on  her  own  plans  and  was  thinking 
of  Caroline  only  as  a  possible  agent. 

"  Caroline,"  she  asked,  "  would  you  take  a  note  for  me  to  some 
one?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Caroline.    "Who  is  it?" 

"Martin  Warlock,"  said  Maggie. 

At  the  name  she  suddenly  blushed  crimson.  She  knew  that 
Caroline  was  looking  at  her  with  eager  curiosity.  She  suspected 
then  that  she  had  done  something  foolish  and  would  have  given 
anything  to  recall  her  words,  but  to  recall  them  now  seemed  only 
to  make  it  the  more  suspicious. 

"  It's  only  something  his  sister  wanted  to  know,"  she  said 
casually.    "  I  thought  you'd  be  seeing  him  soon.    I  hardly  ever  do." 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  up  there  to-night,"  said  Caroline  staring  at 
Maggie. 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  189 

"Well,  I'll  give  it  you  before  you  go,"  then  she  went  on  a3 
casually  as  she  could.    "What's  been  happening  lately?" 

"  Of  course  you  know  all  about  the  excitement,"  said  Caroline 
sitting  back  in  the  faded  arm-chair  with  her  blue  dress  spread 
all  about  her  like  a  cloud. 

"What  excitement?"  said  Maggie,  pulling  herself  up,  with  a 
desperate  struggle,  from  her  own  private  adventures. 

"  What !  you  don't  know  ? "  Caroline  exclaimed  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

"  Know  wbat  ? "  Maggie  asked,  rather  crossly,  repenting  more 
and  more  of  asking  Caroline  to  carry  her  note. 

"  Why,  where  do  you  live  ?  .  .  .  All  about  Mr.  Warlock  and 
his  visions ! " 

"  I've  heard  nothing  at  all,"  said  Maggie. 

This  was  unexpected  joy  to  Caroline,  who  had  never  imagined 
that  there  would  be  any  one  so  near  the  Inner  Saints  as  Maggie 
who  yet  knew  nothing  about  these  recent  events. 

"Do  you  really  know  nothing  about  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Aren't  you  wonderful  ? "  said  Caroline.  "  What  happened  was 
this.  About  three  weeks  ago  Mr.  Warlock  had  a  vision  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.    He  saw  God  at  about  three  in  the  morning." 

"  How  did  he  see  God  ? "  asked  Maggie,  awed  in  spite  of  herself. 

Caroline's  voice  dropped  to  a  mysterious  whisper.  "  He  just 
woke  up  and  there  God  was  at  the  end  of  the  bed.  Of  course  he's 
not  spoken  to  me  about  it,  but  apparently  there  was  a  blaze  of 
light  and  Something  in  the  middle.  And  then  a  voice  spoke  and 
told  Mr.  Warlock  that  on  the  last  night  of  this  year  everything 
would  be  fulfilled." 

"  What  did  He  mean  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Different  people  think  He  meant  different  things,"  said  Caro- 
line. "  Of  course  there's  most  fearful  excitement  about  it.  Mr. 
Warlock's  had  two  since." 

"  Two  what  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Two  visions.  Just  like  the  first.  The  blazing  light  and  the 
Voice  and  telling  him  that  the  last  night  of  the  year's  to  be  the 
time."  Caroline  then  began  to  be  carried  away  by  her  excitement. 
She  talked  faster  and  faster.  "  Oh !  You  don't  know  what  a  state 
every  one's  in!  It's  causing  all  sorts  of  divisions.  First  there 
are  all  his  own  real  believers,  Miss  Pyncheon,  your  aunts,  and  the 
others.  My  father's  one.  They  all  believe  every  word  he  says. 
They're  all  quite  certain  that  the  last  day  of  this  year  is  to  be 
the  time  of  the  Second  Coming.    They  won't  any  of  them,  look  a 


190  THE  CAPTIVES 

minute  further  than  that.  Father  doesn't  care  a  bit  now  what 
mother  does  with  the  money  because,  he  says,  we  shan't  want  any 
next  year.  Mother  isn't  so  sure  so  she's  taking  as  much  care  of 
it  as  ever,  and  of  course  it's  nice  for  her  now  to  have  it  all  in  her 
own  hands.  They're  all  of  them  doing  everything  to  make  them- 
selves ready.  It  doesn't  matter  how  aggravating  you  are,  father 
never  loses  his  temper  now.  He's  so  sweet  that  it's  maddening. 
Haven't  you  noticed  how  good  your  aunts  are?" 

"  They're  always  the  same,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Well.  I  expect  they're  different  really.  Then  there's  the 
middle-class  like  Mr.  Thurston  and  Miss  Avies  who  pretend  to  be- 
lieve all  that  Mr.  Warlock  says,  but  of  course,  they  don't  believe 
a  word  of  it,  and  they  hope  that  this  will  prove  his  ruin.  They 
know  there  won't  be  any  Second  Coming  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
and  then  they  think  he  will  be  finished  and  they'll  be  able  to  get 
rid  of  him.  So  they're  encouraging  him  to  believe  in  all  this,  and 
then  when  the  moment  comes  they'll  turn  on  him ! " 

"  Beasts !  "  said  Maggie  suddenly. 

"  Well,  I  daresay  you're  right,"  said  Caroline.  "  Only  it  does 
make  me  laugh,  all  of  it.  Thurston  and  Miss  Avies  have  all  their 
plans  made,  only  now  they're  quarrelling  because  Thurston  wants 
to  marry  Amy  Warlock  and  Miss  Avies  meant  him  to  marry  her!" 

"  Is  Mr.  Thurston  going  to  marry  Miss  Warlock  ?  "  cried  Maggie. 

"  So  they  say,"  said  Caroline  again  watching  Maggie  curiously. 
"  Well,  anyway,  Miss  Avies  is  the  strongest  of  the  lot  really.  I'd 
back  her  against  anybody.  I'm  terrified  of  her  myself,  I  tell  you 
frankly.  She'd  wring  any  one's  neck  for  twopence.  Oh  yes,  she 
would!  .  .  .  Then  there  are  the  third  lot  who  simply  don't  be- 
lieve in  Mr.  Warlock's  visions  at  all  and  just  laugh  at  him. 
People  like  Miss  Smythe  and  Mrs.  Bellaston.  A  lot  of  them  are 
leaving  the  chapel.  Mr.  Warlock  won't  listen  to  anybody.  He's 
getting  stranger  and  stranger,  and  his  heart's  so  bad  they  say 
he  might  die  any  day  if  he  had  a  shock.  Then  he's  always  quarrel- 
ling with  Martin." 

Caroline  suddenly  stopped.     She  looked  at  Maggie. 

"  Martin's  a  terrible  trial  to  his  father,"  she  said. 

But  Maggie  was  secure  now. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  she  asked  indifferently.  Then  she  added  slowly,  "  What 
do  you  believe,  Caroline  ? " 

"What  do  I  believe?" 

"  Yes,  about  Mr.  Warlock's  visions." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  it's  only  because  he's  ill  and  prays  for  hours 
without  getting  off  his  knees,  and  won't  eat  enough,  that  he  sees 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  191 

things.  And  yet  I  don't  know.  There  may  be  something  in  it. 
If  I  were  on  my  knees  for  weeks  I'd  never  see  anything.  But 
I'll  be  terribly  sorry  for  Mr.  Warlock  if  the  time  comes  and 
nothing  happens.    He'll  just  have  to  go." 

They  sat  a  little  longer  together  and  then  Caroline  said :  "  Well, 
darling,  I  must  be  off.  Where's  that  note  ? "  She  hesitated,  looking 
at  Maggie  with  a  wicked  gleam  in  her  pale  blue  eyes.  "  You  know, 
Maggie,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind.    I've  had  an  offer  of  marriage." 

"  I'm  so  glad,  Caroline,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  It's  a  man — Mr.  Purdie. 
His  father's  ever  so  rich  and  they've  got  a  big  place  down  at  Skea- 
ton." 

"  Where's  that  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  Skeaton-on-Sea.  It's  a  seaside  resort. 
I've  known  William  for  a  long  time.  His  father  knows  father. 
He  came  to  tea  last  week,  and  proposed.  He's  rather  nice  although 
he's  so  silent." 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  him  then  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Well,  I  know  Martin  Warlock's  going  to  ask  me.  It's  been 
getting  closer  and  closer.  I  expect  he  will  this  week.  Of  course, 
he  isn't  so  safe  as  William,  but  he's  much  more  exciting.  And  he's 
got  quite  a  lot  of  money  of  his  own." 

Strange,  the  sure,  confident,  happy  security  that  Maggie  felt 
in  her  heart  at  this  announcement. 

"  I  should  wait  for  Martin  Warlock,"  she  said.  "  He'd  be  rather 
fun  to  marry." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  answered  Caroline.  "  Do  you  know,  I 
believe  I  will.  You're  always  right,  you  darling.  .  .  .  Only 
suppose  I  should  miss  them  both.  William  won't  wait  for  ever! 
Got  that  note,  dear?" 

Maggie  was  defiant.  She  would  just  show  the  creature  that  she 
wasn't  afraid  of  her.  She'd  give  her  the  note  and  she  might 
imagine  what  she  pleased. 

She  got  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrote  hurriedly: 

The  week  is  up  on  Friday.  Will  you  meet  me  that  evening  at 
a  quarter  past  six  under  the  Marble  Arch? 

Maggie. 

The  boldness,  the  excitement  of  this  inflamed  her.  It  was  so 
like  her  to  challenge  any  action  once  she  was  in  it  by  taking  it  to 
its  furthest  limit.  She  put  it  in  an  envelope  and  wrote  Martin's 
name  with  a  flourish. 


192  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  There ! "  she  said,  giving  it  to  Caroline. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Caroline,  and  with  a  number  of  rather  wet 
and  elaborate  kisses  (Maggie  hated  kissing)  departed. 

But  her  afternoon  was  not  yet  over;  hardly  had  Caroline  left 
when  the  door  was  opened  and  Miss  Avies  was  shown  in.  Maggie 
started  up  with  dismay  and  began  to  stammer  excuses.  Miss  Avies 
brushed  them  aside. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said.  "  You'll  do  as  well — even,  it 
may  be,  better." 

A  strange  woman  Miss  Avies !  Maggie  had,  of  course,  seen  her 
at  Chapel,  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  they  had  been  alone 
together.  Miss  Avies  was  like  a  thin  rod  of  black  metal,  erect  and 
quivering  and  waiting  to  strike.  Her  long  sallow  face  was  stiff, 
not  with  outraged  virtue,  or  elaborate  pride,  or  burning  scorn, 
but  simply  with  the  accumulated  concentration  of  fiery  determi- 
nation. She  was  the  very  symbol  of  self-centred  energy,  inhuman, 
cold,  relentless.  Her  hair  was  jet  black  and  gleamed  like  steel,  and 
she  had  thick  black  eyebrows  like  ink-marks  against  her  forehead 
of  parchment.  Her  eyes  were  dead,  like  glass  eyes,  and  she  had 
some  false  teeth  that  sometimes  clicked  in  hei  mouth.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  with  no  ornament  and  thin  black  gloves. 

She  did  not  seem,  however,  to  Maggie  unkindly,  as  she  stood 
there,  looking  about  the  room  rather  short-sightedly.  (She  would 
not  wear  glasses.  Could  it  have  been  vanity?)  She  was  not 
hostile,  nor  scornful,  nor  even  patronising  .  .  .  but  had  Maggie 
been  struck  there,  dead  at  her  feet  she  would  not  have  moved  a 
step  to  help  her.  Her  voice  was  ugly,  with  a  crack  in  it,  as  though 
it  needed  oil.  Maggie,  as  she  looked  at  her,  did  not  need  to  be 
told  that  she  did  not  believe  in  Mr.  Warlock's  mysticism. 

She  came  across  and  shook  Maggie's  hand.  Her  touch  was  cold 
and  stiff  and  a  little  damp  like  that  of  a  wet  stone. 

"  Sorry  your  Aunt's  out,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can  talk  to  you  for 
a  while."    She  looked  at  Maggie  for  a  moment.    Then  she  said: 

"  Why  don't  you  clear  out  of  all  this  ? " 

The  voice  was  so  abrupt  and  the  words  so  unexpected  that  Mag- 
gie jumped. 

"  Why  don't  If  "  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  you,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "You've  no  place  here  in  all 
this  business.    You  don't  believe  in  it,  do  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Maggie. 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  use  it  for  something  you  do  believe  in  ? " 

"No,"  said  Maggie. 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  193 

"Well  then,  clear  out." 

Maggie,  colouring  a  little,  said: 

"  My  aunts  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  oughtn't  to  leave 
them." 

"  Fiddlesticks,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "  Your  life's  your  own,  not 
your  aunts'." 

She  sat  down  and  stayed  bolt  upright  and  motionless  near  the 
fire;  she  flung  a  thin  dark  shadow  like  a  stain  on  the  wall. 

There  was  a  long  pause  between  them.  After  that  abrupt  open- 
ing there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say.  Maggie's  thoughts  also 
were  elsewhere.  She  was  wishing  now  passionately  that  she  had 
not  given  that  note  to  Caroline. 

Suddenly  Miss  Avies  said,  "  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all 
day?" 

Maggie  laughed.  "  Try  and  make  myself  less  careless,  Miss 
Avies." 

Miss  Avies  replied,  "You'll  never  make  yourself  less  careless. 
We  are  as  we  are." 

"  But  don't  you  think,"  said  Maggie,  "  that  one  can  cure  one's 
faults?" 

"  One  gets  rid  of  one  only  to  make  room  for  another.  .  .  . 
But  that  doesn't  matter.  The  point  is  that  one  should  have  an 
ambition.     What's  your  ambition,  child  ? " 

Maggie  didn't  answer.  Her  ambition  was  Martin,  but  she 
couldn't  tell  Miss  Avies  so. 

At  last,  after  a  long  pause,  as  Miss  Avies  still  seemed  to  be 
waiting,  she  answered: 

"  I  suppose  that  I  want  to  earn  my  living — to  be  independent." 

"  Well,  leave  this  place  then,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "  There's  no 
independence  here."  Then  added,  as  though  to  herself.  "  They 
think  they're  looking  for  the  face  of  God.  .  .  .  It's  only  for 
themselves  and  their  vanity  they're  looking." 

Maggie  said,  to  break  another  of  the  long  pauses  that  seemed  to 
be  always  forming  between  them: 

"  I  think  every  one  ought  to  earn  their  own  living,  don't  you  ? " 

Miss  Avies  shook  her  head.  "  You're  very  young — terribly 
young.  I've  got  no  advice  to  give  you  except  to  lead  a  healthy  life 
somewhere  away  from  these  surroundings.  We're  an  unnatural 
lot  here  and  you're  a  healthy  young  creature.  .  .  .  Have  you  got 
a  lover?" 

Maggie  smiled.    "I've  got  a  friend,"  she  said. 

Miss  Avies  sighed.  "  That's  more  than  I've  got,"  she  said. 
"  Not  that  I've  time  for  one,"  she  added.    She  got  up.    "  I  won't 


< 


194  THE  CAPTIVES 

wait  for  your  aunt,"  she  said,  "  I've  left  a  note  downstairs.  .  .  . 
You  clear  out  as  soon  as  you  can,  that's  my  advice  to  you." 

She  said  good-bye,  looking  into  Maggie's  clear  eyes.  She  was 
suddenly  less  inhuman,  the  touch  of  her  hand  was  warmer. 

"  Don't  you  cheat  yourself  into  believing  in  the  Deity,"  she  said; 
and  was  gone. 

When  Friday  arrived  Maggie  had  not  seen  Caroline  again,  and 
she  could  not  tell  whether  the  note  had  been  safely  delivered  or  no. 

She  was  not  sure  what  she  had  better  do.  Caroline  might  have 
done  anything  with  the  note,  torn  it  up,  burnt  it,  lost  it,  forgotten 
it  altogether.  Well,  that  was  a  risk  that  Maggie  must  take.  If 
he  did  not  appear  she  would  wait  a  little  while  and  then  come 
away.  They  must  soon  meet  in  any  case.  They  had  all  their 
lives  before  them. 

Aunt  Anne  was  up  again — very,  very  pale  now  and  so  thin 
that  the  light  seemed  to  shine  through  her  making  her  more  of 
a  stained  window  saint  than  ever. 

Maggie  told  her  about  the  visit,  Aunt  Anne  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously. She  seemed  so  weak  and  frail  that  Maggie  suddenly  felt 
warm  maternal  love.  Rather  shyly  she  put  her  hand  upon  her 
aunt's :  "  I  won't  go  away  until  you're  better " 

Aunt  Anne  nodded  her  head. 

"  I  know  you  won't,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Don't  be  out  late  to-day. 
We  shall  be  anxious  about  you." 

Maggie  had  made  a  promise  and  was  terrified  when  she  thought 
of  it.  Suppose  her  aunt  did  not  get  better  for  years  and 
years  ? 

People   often   had   long   lingering   illnesses   with   no   apparent 
change  in  their  condition.     To  Maggie  a  promise  was  an  utterly  ~] 
final  thing.    She  could  not  dream  that  one  ever  broke  one's  word./ 
She  trembled  now  when  she  thought  of  what  she  had  done.     She 
had  been  entrapped  after  all  and  by  her  own  free  will. 

In  her  little  room  as  she  was  putting  on  her  hat  she  suddenly 
prayed  to  a  God,  of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  that  her  aunt  might 
get  better  soon. 

She  started  out  on  her  great  adventure  with  a  strange  self- 
assurance  as  though  loving  Martin  had  given  her  the  wisdom  of  all 
the  ages. 

Turning  down  the  street  towards  the  Strand  she  found  almost 
at  once  a  taxi-cab  drawn  up,  as  though  it  had  been  waiting  there 
especially  for  her  like  an  eloping  coach  in  a  romantic  tale.  A 
fat  red-faced  fellow  with  a  purple  nose,  a  cloth  cap  and  a  familiar 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  195 

vague  eye,  as  though  he  always  saw  further  than  he  intended, 
waited  patiently  for  her  to  speak. 

Boldly,  as  though  she  had  done  such  things  all  her  life,  sh« 
said,  "  Fourteen  Bryanston  Square."  Then  she  slipped  in  and 
was  hidden  from  the  gay  world.  She  sat  there,  her  hands  on  her 
lap  staring  at  the  three  crimson  rolls  in  the  neck  of  her  driver. 
She  was  thinking  of  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  Did  she  struggle  to 
think  ?  Only  words  would  come,  "  Martin,"  or  "  Bryanston 
Square,"  or  "  cab,"  again  and  again,  words  that  did  not  mean 
anything  but  physical  sensations.  "  Martin  "  hot  fire  at  the  throat, 
"  Bryanston  Square  "  an  iron  rod  down  the  spine,  and  "  cab  "  dust 
and  ashes  in  the  eyes. 

She  tried  to  look  at  herself  in  the  little  mirror  opposite  her, 
but  she  could  only  catch  the  corner  of  her  cheek  and  half  her  hat. 
But  she  minded  less  about  her  appearance  now.  If  Martin  could 
love  her  it  did  not  matter  what  others  thought — nevertheless  she 
pulled  her  hat  about  a  little  and  patted  her  dress.  The  cab  stopped 
and  she  felt  desperately  lonely.  Did  any  one  care  about  her  any- 
where? No,  no  one.  She  could  have  cried  with  pity  at  the 
thought  of  her  own  loneliness. 

"  One  and  sixpence,  Miss,"  said  the  cabman  in  so  husky  a  voice. 

She  gave  it  to  him. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked,  looking  at  it. 

"  One  and  sixpence,"  she  answered  timidly,  wondering  at  his 
sarcastic  eye. 

"  Oh  well,  o'  course,"  he  said,  looking  her  all  over. 

She  knew  instinctively  that  he  demanded  more.  She  found 
another  sixpence.    *  Is  that  enough  ? "  she  asked. 

He  seemed  ashamed. 

"  If  I  'adn't  a  wife  sick "  he  began. 

She  ran  up  the  high  stone  steps  and  rang  a  bell.  The  episode 
with  the  driver  had  disturbed  her  terribly.  It  had  shown  in  what 
a  foreign  world  she  was.  All  her  self-confidence  was  gone.  She 
had  to  take  a  pull  at  herself  and  say :  "  Why,  Maggie,  you  might 
be  ringing  the  dentist's  bell  at  this  moment." 

That  helped  her,  and  then  the  thought  of  Martin.  She  saw  his 
boyish  smile  and  felt  the  warm  touch  of  his  rough  hand.  When 
the  maid  was  there  instead  of  the  green  door,  she  almost  said: 
"Is  Martin  in?" 

But  she  behaved  very  well. 

"  Mrs.  Mark  ? "  she  said  in  precisely  the  voice  required. 

The  maid  smiled  and  stood  aside.  And  then  into  what  a  world 
she  entered  1    A  world  of  comfort  and  re-assurance,  of  homeliness 


196  THE  CAPTIVES 

and  kindliness,  without  parrots  and  fierce-eyed  cats  and  swaying 
pictures  of  armoured  men — a  world  of  urbanity  and  light  and 
space.  There  was  a  high  white  staircase  with  brown  etchings  in 
dark  frames  on  the  white  walls.  There  was  a  thick  soft  carpet  and 
a  friendly  fat  grandfather  clock.  Many  doors  but  none  of  them 
mysterious,  all  ready  to  be  opened. 

She  climbed  the  staircase  and  was  shown  into  a  room  high 
and  gaily  coloured  and  full  of  flowers.  She  saw  the  deep  curtains, 
blue  silk  shot  with  purple,  the  chairs  of  blue  silk  and  a  bowl  of 
soft  amber  light  hanging  from  the  ceiling.  A  mass  of  gold-red 
chrysanthemums  flamed  against  the  curtains.  Several  people 
were  gathered  round  a  tea-table  near  the  fire. 

She  stood  lost  on  the  thick  purple  carpet  under  the  amber  light, 
all  too  brilliant  for  her.  She  had  come  from  a  world  of  dark- 
ness, owl-like  she  must  blink  before  the  blaze.  Some  one  came 
forward  to  her,  some  one  so  kind  and  comforting,  so  easy  and 
unsurprised  that  Maggie  suddenly  felt  herself  steadied  as  though 
a  friend  had  put  an  arm  around  her.  Before  she  had  felt :  "  This 
light — I  am  shabby."  Now  she  felt,  "  I  am  with  friendly  people." 
She  was  surprised  at  the  way  that  she  was  suddenly  at  her  ease. 

Mrs.  Mark  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had  soft  liquid  eyes  and 
her  hand  that  held  Maggie's  was  firm  and  warm  and  strong. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you,"  said  Mrs.  Mark.  "  That  is  Miss 
Trenchard,  and  that  Mr.  Trenchard.  This  is  my  husband.  Philip, 
this  is  Miss  Cardinal." 

Miss  Trenchard  must  be  forty,  Maggie  thought.  She  was  plump 
and  thick-set,  with  a  warm  smile.  Then  Mr.  Trenchard  was  a 
clergyman — he  would  be  stout  were  he  not  so  broad.  His  face  was 
red,  his  hair  snowy  white,  but  he  did  not  look  old. 

He  smiled  at  Maggie  as  though  he  had  known  her  all  his  life. 
Then  there  was  Mr.  Mark,  who  was  stocky  and  thick,  and  re- 
minded Maggie  of  Martin,  although  his  face  was  quite  different, 
he  looked  much  cleverer  and  not  such  a  boy;  he  was  not,  in  fact, 
a  boy  at  all.  "  I'm  sure  he  thinks  too  hard,"  decided  Maggie,  who 
had  habits  of  making  up  her  mind  at  once  about  people. 

"  Well,  there's  no  one  to  be  frightened  about  here,"  she  decided. 

And  indeed  there  was  not!  It  was  as  though  they  had  all  some 
especial  reason  for  being  nice  to  her.  Perhaps  they  saw  that  she 
was  not  in  her  own  world  here.  And  yet  they  did  not  make  her 
feel  that.  She  drank  in  the  differences  with  great  gulps  of  appre- 
ciation, but  it  was  not  they  who  insisted. 

Here  were  light  and  colour  and  space  above  all — rest.  Nothing 
was  about  to  happen,  no  threat  over  their  heads  that  the  roof 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  197 

would  fall  beneath  one's  feet,  that  the  floor  would  sink.  No  sudden 
catching  of  the  breath  at  the  opening  of  a  door,  no  hesitation  about 
climbing  the  stairs,  no  surveillance  by  the  watching  Thomas,  no 
distant  clanging  of  the  Chapel  bell.  How  strange  they  all  seemed, 
looking  back  from  this  safe  harbour.  The  aunts,  the  Warlocks, 
Thurston,  Mr.  Crashaw,  Caroline — all  of  them.  There  the  imagi- 
nation set  fire  to  every  twig — here  the  imagination  was  not  needed, 
because  everything  occurred  before  your  eyes. 

She  did  not  figure  it  all  out  in  so  many  words  at  once,  but  the 
contrast  of  the  two  worlds  was  there  nevertheless.  Why  had  she 
been  so  anxious,  so  nervous,  so  distressed?  There  was  no  need. 
Had  she  not  known  that  this  other  world  existed?  Perhaps  she 
had  not.    She  must  never  again  forget  it.    ... 

Katherine  Mark  was  so  kind  and  friendly,  her  voice  so  soft  and 
her  interest  so  eager,  that  Maggie  felt  that  she  could  tell  her  any- 
thing. But  their  talk  was  not  to  come  just  yet — first  there  must 
be  general  conversation. 

The  clergyman  with  the  white  hair  and  the  rosy  face  laughed  a 
great  deal  in  a  schoolboy  kind  of  way,  and  every  time  that  he 
laughed  his  sister,  who  was  like  a  pippin  apple  with  her  sunburnt 
cheeks,  looked  at  him  with  protecting  eyes. 

"  She  looks  after  him  in  everything,"  said  Maggie  to  herself. 
He  was  called  Paul  by  them  all. 

"  He's  my  cousin,  you  know,  Miss  Cardinal,"  said  Mrs.  Mark. 
"  And  yet  I  scarcely  ever  see  him.  Isn't  it  a  shame?  Grace  makes 
everything  so  comfortable  for  him.    ..." 

Grace  smiled,  well  pleased. 

"It's  Paul's  devotion  to  his  parish  ..."  she  said  in  calm, 
happy,  self-assured  voice,  as  though  she'd  never  had  a  surprise 
in  her  life. 

"I'm  sure  it  isn't  either  of  those  things,"  thought  Maggie  to 
herself.    "  He's  lazy." 

(*  Lazy  but  nice.  She  had  never  seen  a  clergyman  so  healthy,  so 
happy,  so  clean  and  so  kind.    She  smiled  across  the  table  at  him. 

"  Do  you  know  Skeaton  ? "  he  asked  her. 

Skeaton !  Where  had  she  heard  of  the  place  ?  Why,  of  course, 
it  was  Caroline! 

"  Only  yesterday  I  heard  of  it  for  the  first  time,"  she  said.  "  A 
friend  of  mine  knows  some  one  there." 

"  Beastly  place,"  said  Mr.  Mark.  "  Sand  always  blowing  into 
your  eyes." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  got  up  to  go. 

He  stood  a  moment  holding  Maggie's  hand.    "  If  ever  you  come 


198  THE  CAPTIVES 

to  Skeaton,  Miss  Cardinal,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  be  delighted.  ..." 
His  eyes  she  noticed  were  light  blue  like  a  baby's.  She  felt  that 
he  liked  her  and  would  not  forget  her. 

"  Come,  Paul,"  said  Miss  Trenchard,  rather  sharply  Maggie 
fancied. 

Soon  afterwards  Philip  departed.  "  Must  finish  that  beastly 
thing,"  he  assured  his  wife. 

"  It's  an  article,"  Katherine  Mark  explained.  "  He's  always 
writing  about  politics.  I  hate  them,  so  he  pretends  to  hate  them 
too.    But  he  doesn't  really.    He  loves  them." 

"I  know  nothing  about  politics,"  said  Maggie  with  profound 
truth.    "  Your  husband  must  be  very  clever." 

"  He's  better  than  that,"  said  Katherine  with  pride ;  "  I  hate 
perfect  people,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  do ! "  said  Maggie  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

They  then  came  to  her  particular  business. 

"  I  would  like  to  get  some  work  to  do,"  said  Maggie,  "  that  would 
make  me  independent.    I  have  three  hundred  pounds  of  my  own." 

"  What  can  you  do  ? "  asked  Katherine. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Can  you  shorthand  and  type  ? " 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  Maggie;  "but  I'll  learn." 

"  Must  you  be  independent  soon  ? "  asked  Katherine.  "  Are  you 
unhappy  where  you  are?" 

Maggie  paused. 

"  Don't  tell  me  anything  you  oughtn't  to,"  said  Katherine. 

"  No,"  answered  Maggie.  "  It  isn't  that  exactly.  I'm  not 
happy  at  home,  but  I  think  that's  my  fault.  My  aunts  are  very 
good.  But  I  want  to  be  free.  It  is  all  very  religious  where  I  am, 
and  they  want  me  to  believe  in  their  religion.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
religious  at  all.  Then  I  don't  want  to  be  dependent  on  people. 
I'm  very  ignorant.  I  know  nothing  about  anything,  and  so  long 
as  I  am  kept  with  my  aunts  I  shall  never  learn." 

She  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  thought  suddenly  of  Martin. 
His  coming  had  altered  everything.  How  could  she  say  what  she 
wanted  her  life  to  be  until  her  relation  to  him  were  settled? 
Everything  depended  on  that. 

This  sense  of  Martin's  presence  silenced  her.  "If  I  can  feel," 
she  said  at  last,  "that  I  can  ask  your  advice.  I  have  nobody. 
.  .  .  We  all  seem.  .  .  .  Oh!  how  can  I  make  you  understand 
properly!  You  never  will  have  seen  anything  like  our  house. 
It  is  all  so  queer,  bo  shut-up,  away  from  everything.  I'm  like  a 
prisoner.    ..." 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  199 

And  that  is  perhaps  what  she  was  like  to  Mrs.  Mark,  sitting 
there  in  her  funny  ill-fitting  clothes,  her  anxious  old-fashioned  face 
as  of  a  child  aged  long  before  her  time.  Katherine  Mark,  who  had 
had,  in  her  life,  her  own  perplexities  and  sorrows,  felt  her  heart 
warm  to  this  strange  isolated  girl.  She  had  needed  in  her  own 
life  at  one  time  all  her  courage,  and  she  had  used  it;  she  had 
never  regretted  the  step  that  she  had  then  taken.  She  believed 
therefore  in  courage.  .  .  .  Courage  was  eloquent  in  every  move- 
ment of  Maggie's  square  reliant  body. 

"  She  could  be  braver  than  I  have  ever  been,"  she  thought. 

"  Miss  Cardinal,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  come  here  whenever 
you  can.  You  haven't  seen  our  boy,  Tim,  yet — one  and  a  half — 
and  there  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  show  you.  Will  you 
count  yourself  a  friend  of  the  house  ? " 

Maggie  blushed  and  twisted  her  hands  together. 

"  You're  very  good,"  she  said,  "  but  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  . 
perhaps  you  won't  like  me,  or  what  I  do." 

"  I  do  like  you,"  said  Katherine.  *  And  if  I  like  any  one  I  don't 
care  what  they  do." 

u  All  the  same,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  don't  belong  ...  to  your 
world,  your  life.  I  should  shock  you,  I  know.  You  might  be 
sorry  afterwards  that  you  knew  me.  Supposing  I  broke 
away.    ..." 

"  But  I  broke  away  myself,"  said  Katherine,  "  it  is  sometimes 
the  only  thing  to  do.  I  made  my  mother,  who  had  been  goodness 
itself  to  me,  desperately  unhappy." 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  marry  my  husband." 

"Well,  I  love  a  man  too,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  you'll  be  happy !  "  said  Katherine.  *  As  happy 
as  I  am." 

u  No,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  don't  expect  to  be 
happy." 

She  seemed  to  herself  as  she  said  that  to  be  hundreds  of  miles 
away  from  Katherine  Mark  and  her  easy  life,  the  purple  curtains 
and  her  amber  light. 

"  Not  happy  but  satisfied,"  she  said. 

She  saw  that  it  was  five  minutes  past  six.  "I  must  go,"  she 
said. 

When  they  said  good-bye  Katherine  bent  forward  and  kissed  her. 

"  If  ever,  in  your  life,  I  can  help  in  any  way  at  all,"  she  said, 
"come  to  me." 

"  I'll  do  that,"  promised  Maggie.     She  coloured,  and  then  her- 


200  THE  CAPTIVES 

self  bent  forward  and  kissed  Katherine.  "  I  shall  like  to  think 
of  you — and  all  this "  she  said  and  went. 

She  was  let  out  into  the  outer  world  by  the  smiling  maid- 
servant. Bryanston  Square  was  dark  with  purple  colour  as  though 
the  purple  curtains  inside  the  house  had  been  snipped  off  from  a 
general  curtained  world.  There  was  a  star  or  two  and  some  gaunt 
trees  with  black  pointing  fingers,  and  here  a  lighted  window  and 
there  a  shining  doorway;  behind  it  all  the  rumble  of  a  world  that 
disregarded  love  and  death  and  all  the  Higher  Catechism. 

Maggie  confronted  a  policeman. 

"  Please,  can  you  tell  me  where  the  Marble  Arch  is  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Straight  ahead,  Miss,"  he  answered,  pointing  down  the  street, 
"you  can't  miss  it." 

And  she  could  not.  It  soon  gleamed  white  ahead  of  her  against 
the  thick  folds  of  the  sky.  When  she  saw  it  her  heart  raced  in 
front  of  her,  like  a  pony,  suddenly  released,  kicking  its  heels. 
And  her  thoughts  were  so  strangely  wild!  The  lovely  night,  yes, 
purple  like  Mrs.  Mark's  curtains  and  scented  oranges,  chrysan- 
themums, boot-polish  and  candied  sugar. — Oh  yes!  how  kind  they 
had  been — nice  clergyman,  fat  a  little,  but  young  in  spite  of  his 
white  hair,  and  Aunt  Anne  in  bed  under  the  crucifix  struggling 
and  Mr.  Crashaw  smiling  lustfully  at  Caroline.  .  .  .  The  long 
black  streets,  strips  of  silk  and  the  lamps  like  fat  buttons  on  a  coat, 
there  was  a  cat!  Hist!  Hist!  A  streak  of  black  against  black 
.    .    .    and  the  Chapel  bell  ringing  and  Thomas'  fiery  eyes.    .    .    . 

Behind  all  this  confusion  there  was  Martin,  Martin,  Martin. 
Creeping  nearer  and  nearer  as  though  he  were  just  behind  her,  or 
was  it  that  she  was  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  to  him?  She  did 
not  know,  but  her  heart  now  was  beating  so  thickly  that  it  was 
as  though  giants  were  wrapping  cloth  after  cloth  round  it,  hot 
cloths,  but  their  hands  were  icy  cold.  No,  she  was  simply  excited, 
desperately,  madly  excited. 

She  had  never  been  excited  before,  and  now,  with  the  excite- 
ment, there  was  mingled  the  strangest  hot  pain  and  cold  pity.  She 
noticed  that  now  her  knees  were  trembling  and  that  if  they  trem- 
bled much  more  she  would  not  be  able  to  walk  at  all. 

"  Now,  Maggie,  steady  your  knees ! "  she  said  to  herself.  But 
look,  the  houses  now  were  trembling  a  little  too !  Ridiculous  those 
smart  houses  with  their  fine  doors  and  white  steps  to  tremble! 
No,  it  was  her  heart,  not  the  houses.    .   .   . 

"  Do  I  look  queer  ? "  she  thought ;  "  will  people  be  looking  at 
me?" 

Ideas  raced  through  her  head,  now  like  horses  in  the  Derby. 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  201 

Woof !  Poof !  "  Off  we  go !  "  St.  Dreot's,  that  square  piece  of 
grass  on  the  lawn  with  the  light  on  it,  her  clothes,  the  socks  that 
must  be  mended,  Caroline's  silk  and  the  rustle  it  made,  shops, 
houses,  rivers,  seas,  death — yes,  Aunt  Anne's  cancer  .  .  .  and 
then,  with  a  great  upward  surge  like  rising  from  the  depths  of  the 
sea  after  a  dive,  Martin!  Martin,  Martin!  .  .  .  For  a  moment 
then  she  had  to  pause.  She  had  been  walking  too  fast.  Her  heart 
jumped,  then  ran  a  step  or  two,  then  fell  into  a  dead  pause.  .  .  . 
She  went  on,  seeing  now  nothing  but  two  lamps  that  watched  her 
like  the  eyes  of  a  giant. 

She  was  there!  This  was  a  Marble  Arch!  All  by  itself  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  She  crossed  to  it,  first  went  under  it,  then 
thought  that  he  would  not  see  her  there  so  came  out  and  stood, 
nervously  rubbing  her  gloved  hands  against  one  another  and 
turning  her  head,  like  a  bird,  swiftly  from  side  to  side. 

She  didn't  like  standing  there.  It  seemed  to  make  her  so  promi- 
nent. Men  stared  at  her.  He  should  have  been  there  first.  He 
might  have  known.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  Caroline  never  gave  him 
the  letter.  At  that  thought  her  heart  really  did  stop.  She  was 
terrified  at  once  as  though  some  one  had  told  her  disastrous  news. 
She  would  not  wait  very  long;  then  she  would  go  home.    .   .   . 

She  saw  him.  He  stood  only  a  little  away  from  her  staring 
about  him,  looking  for  her.  She  felt  that  she  had  not  seen  him 
for  years;  she  drank  in  his  sturdiness,  his  boyish  face,  his  air  of 
caring  nothing  for  authority.  She  had  not  seen  his  dark  blue 
overcoat  before.  He  stood  directly  under  a  lamp,  swaying  ever  so 
little  on  his  heels,  his  favourite,  most  characteristic,  movement. 
He  stood  there  as  though  he  were  purposely  giving  her  a  portrait 
that  she  might  remember  for  the  rest  of  her  days.  She  was  too 
nervous  to  move  and  then  she  wanted  that  wonderful  moment  to 
last,  that  moment  when  she  had  realised  that  he  had  come  to 
meet  her,  that  he  was  there,  amongst  all  those  crowds,  simply  for 
her.  that  he  was  looking  for  her  and  wanting  her,  that  he  would 
be  bitterly  disappointed  did  she  not  come.    .   .   . 

She  saw  him  give  a  little  impatient  jerk  of  the  head,  the  same 
movement  that  she  had  seen  him  make  in  Chapel.  That  jerk 
set  her  in  motion  again,  and  she  was  suddenly  at  his  side.  She 
touched  his  arm;  he  turned  and  his  eyes  lit  with  pleasure.  They 
smiled  at  one  another  and  then,  without  a  word,  moved  off  towards 
the  park.  He  took  her  arm  and  put  it  through  his.  She  felt 
the  warm  thick  stuff  of  the  blue  coat,  and  beneath  that  the 
steady  firm  beat  of  his  heart.  They  walked  closely  together,  his 
thigh  pressed  against  hers,  and  once  and  again  her  hair  brushed 


202  THE  CAPTIVES 

his  cheek.  She  was  so  shy  that,  until  they  were  through  the  gates 
of  the  park,  she  did  not  speak.    Then  she  said : 

"I  was  so  afraid  that  Caroline  would  not  give  you  the  note.*' 

"  Oh,  she  gave  it  me  all  right."  He  pressed  her  arm  closer  to 
him.    "  But  I  expect  that  she  read  it  first." 

"Oh,  is  she  like  that?" 

"Yes,  she's  like  that.    ..." 

There  was  another  pause;  they  turned  down  the  path  to  the 
right  towards  the  trees  that  were  black  lumps  of  velvet  against  the 
purple  sky.  There  were  no  stars,  and  it  was  liquidly  dark  as 
though  they  ploughed  through  water.  Maggie  felt  suffocated  with 
heat  and  persecuted  by  a  strange  weariness;  she  was  suddenly  so 
tired  that  it  was  all  that  she  could  do  to  walk. 

"I'm  tired  ..."  she  murmured — "expecting  you — afraid  that 
you  wouldn't  come." 

"  I  believe  that  I  would  have  come,"  he  answered  quite  fiercely, 
"  even  if  I  hadn't  had  the  note — I  was  determined  to  see  you 
to-night  some  way.  But  you  know,  Maggie,  it  had  better  be  for  the 
last  time.    ..." 

"  No,"  she  said,  whispering,  "  it's  the  first  time." 

"  Let's  sit  down  here,"  he  said.    "  We're  alone  all  right." 

There  was  no  seat  near  them.  The  trees  made  a  cave  of  black 
above  them,  and  in  front  of  them  the  grass  swept  like  a  grey  beach 
into  mist.  There  was  no  sound  save  a  distant  whirr  like  the 
hum  of  a  top  that  died  to  a  whisper  and  then  was  lashed  by  some 
infuriated  god  to  activity  again. 

They  sat  close  together  on  the  bench.  She  felt  his  arm  move 
out  as  though  he  would  embrace  her,  then  suddenly  he  drew  back. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  until  we've  talked  this  out  we've  got  to  be  like 
strangers.  We  can't  go  on,  you  know,  Maggie,  and  it's  no  use 
your  saying  we  can." 

She  pressed  her  hands  tightly  together.  "  I  can  convince  him 
better,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  if  I'm  very  quiet  and  matter-of- 
fact."  So,  speaking  very  calmly  and  not  looking  at  him,  she  went 
on: 

"  But,  Martin,  you  promised  last  time  that  it  would  depend  on 
me.  .  .  .  You  said  that  if  I  didn't  mind  your  being  married  and 
was  willing  to  take  risks  that  we  would  go  on  together.  Well,  I've 
thought  all  about  it  and  I  know  that  I'd  rather  be  miserable  with 
you  than  happy  with  any  one  else.  But  then  I  shouldn't  be  mis- 
erable. You  seem  to  think  you  could  make  me  miserable  just  as 
soon  as  you  like.  But  that  depends  on  myself.  If  I  don't  want  to 
be  miserable  nobody  can  make  me  be." 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  203 

She  paused.  He  moved  a  little  closer  and  suddenly  took  her 
hand. 

She  drew  it  away  and  went  on: 

"  Don't  think  I'm  inexperienced  about  this,  Martin.  You  say 
I  know  nothing  about  men.  Perhaps  I  don't.  But  I  know  myself. 
I  know  what  I  want,  and  I  can  look  after  myself.  However  badly 
you  treated  me,  it  would  be  you  that  I  was  with  all  the 
time." 

"  No,  no,  Maggie,"  he  answered,  speaking  rapidly  and  as  though 
he  were  fiercely  protesting  against  some  one.  "  It  isn't  that  at  all. 
You  say  you  know  yourself — but  then  I  know  myself.  It  isn't 
only  that  I'm  a  rotten  fellow.  It  is  that  I  seem  to  bring  a  curse 
on  every  one  I'm  fond  of.  I  love  my  father,  and  I've  come  back 
and  made  him  miserable.  It's  always  like  that.  And  if  I  made 
you  miserable  it  would  be  the  worst  thing  I  ever  did.  ...  I 
don't  even  know  whether  I  love  you.  If  I  do  it's  different  from  any 
love  I've  ever  had.  Other  women  I'd  be  mad  about.  I'd  go  for 
them  whatever  happened  and  get  them  somehow,  and  I  wouldn't 
care  a  bit  whether  they  were  happy  or  no.  But  I  feel  about  you 
almost  as  though  you  were  a  man — not  sensually  at  all,  but  that 
safe  steady  security  that  you  feel  for  a  man  sometimes.  .  .  . 
You're  so  restful  to  be  with.  I  feel  now  as  though  you  were  the 
one  person  in  the  world  who  could  turn  me  into  a  decent  human 
being.  I  feel  as  though  we  were  just  meant  to  move  along  to- 
gether; but  then  some  other  woman  would  come  like  a  fire  and  off 
I'd  go.  .  .  .  Then  I'd  hate  myself  worse  than  ever  and  be  really 
finished." 

Maggie  looked  at  him. 

"  You  don't  love  me  then,  Martin  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Yes  I  do,"  he  answered  suddenly,  "  I  keep  telling  myself  that 
I  don't,  but  I  know  that  I  do.  Only  it's  different.  It's  as  though 
I  were  loving  myself,  the  better  part  of  myself.  Not  something 
new  and  wildly  exciting,  but  something  old  that  I  had  known 
always  and  that  had  always  been  with  me.  If  I  went  away  now, 
Maggie,  I  know  I'd  come  back  one  day — perhaps  years  afterwards 
— but  I  know  I'd  come  back.  It's  like  that  religious  part  of  me, 
like  my  legs  and  my  arms.  Oh!  it's  not  of  my  own  comfort 
I'm  doubting,  but  it's  you!  ...  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you, 
Maggie  darling,  just  as  I've  hurt  every  one  I  loved " 

"  I'll  come  with  you,  Martin,"  said  Maggie,  "  as  long  as  you 
want  me,  and  if  you  don't  want  me,  later  you  will  again  and  111 
be  waiting  for  you." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her.    She  crept  up  elose  to  him,  nestled 


204  THE  CAPTIVES 

into  his  coat  and  put  her  hand  up  to  his  cheek.  He  bent  down 
his  head  and  they  kissed. 

After  that  there  could  be  no  more  argument.  What  had  he 
not  intended  to  press  upon  her?  With  what  force  and  power  had 
he  not  planned  to  persuade  her?  How  he  would  tell  her  that  he 
did  not  love  her,  that  he  would  not  be  faithful  to  her,  that  he  would 
treat  her  cruelly.  Now  it  was  all  gone.  With  a  gesture  of  almost 
ironic  abandonment  he  flung  away  his  scruples.  It  was  always  so; 
life  was  stronger  than  he.  He  had  tried,  in  this  at  least,  to  behave 
like  a  decent  man.    But  life  did  not  want  him  to  be  decent.    .    .    . 

And  how  he  needed  that  rest  that  she  gave  him!  As  he  felt 
her  close  up  against  him,  folded  into  him  with  that  utterly  naif 
and  childish  trust  that  had  allured  and  charmed  him  on  the  very 
first  occasion,  he  felt  nothing  but  a  sweet  and  blessed  rest.  He 
would  not  think  of  the  future.  He  would  not.  .  .  .  He  would 
not.  And  perhaps  all  would  be  well.  As  he  pressed  her  closer  to 
him,  as  he  felt  her  lips  suddenly  strike  through  the  dark,  find  his 
cheek  and  then  his  mouth,  as  he  felt  her  soft  confident  hand  find 
his  and  then  close  and  fold  inside  it  like  a  flower,  he  wondered 
whether  this  once  he  might  not  force  things  to  be  right.  It  was 
time  he  took  things  in  hand.    He  could.    He  must.    .    .    . 

He  began  to  whisper  to  her:   . 

"  Maggie  darling.  ...  It  mayn't  be  bad.  I'll  find  out  where 
this  other  woman  is  and  she  shall  divorce  me.  I'll  arrange  it  all. 
And  we'll  go  away  somewhere  where  I  can  work,  and  we  won't 
allow  anybody  to  interfere.  After  all,  I'm  older  now.  The  mess 
I've  been  in  before  is  because  I  always  make  wrong  shots.    ..." 

His  words  ceased.  Their  hearts  were  beating  too  tumultuously 
together  for  words  to  be  possible.  Maggie  did  not  wish  to  speak, 
she  could  not.  She  was  mingled  with  him,  her  heart  his,  her  lips 
his,  her  cheek  his.  .  .  .  She  did  not  believe  that  words  would 
come  even  though  she  wished  for  them.  She  was  utterly  happy — 
so  utterly  that  she  was,  as  it  were,  numb  with  happiness. 

They  murmured  one  another's  names. 

"  Martin." 

"Maggie!    ..." 

At  last,  dreaming,  scarcely  knowing  what  they  did,  like  two 
children  in  a  dark  wood,  they  wandered  towards  home. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PARADISE 

MAGGIE  had  never  really  been  happy  before.  She  had  of 
course  not  known  this ;  her  adventures  in  introspection  had 
been  very  few,  besides  she  had  not  known  what  happiness  looked 
like;  her  father,  her  uncle,  and  her  aunts  were  not  exactly  happy 
people.  .    .   . 

Now  she  flung  herself  without  thought  or  care  into  a  flood  of 
happiness,  and  as  sometimes  occurs  in  life,  she  was  granted  by 
the  gods,  beneficent  or  ironic  as  you  please,  a  period  of  security 
when  everything  menacing  or  dangerous  withdrew  and  it  seemed 
as  though  the  whole  world  were  in  a  conspiracy  to  cheat  her  into 
confidence.  She  was  confident  because  she  did  not  think;  she 
simply  did  not  think  at  all.  She  loved  Martin  and  Martin  loved 
her;  cased  in  that  golden  armour,  she  confronted  her  aunts  and 
the  house  and  the  world  behind  the  house  with  a  sublime  and 
happy  confidence.  She  loved  her  aunts  now,  she  loved  Martha  and 
the  parrot  and  the  cat,  and  she  could  not  believe  that  they  did 
not  all  love  her.  Because  Martin  loved  her  the  rest  of  the  world 
must  also  do  so,  and  if  they  did  not  she  would  compel  them. 

For  three  whole  weeks  the  spell  lasted,  for  three  marvellous 
golden  weeks.  When  she  looked  back  afterwards  she  wondered 
that  she  had  not  seen  many  things,  warnings,  portents,  whatever  you 
please  to  call  them.  But  for  three  weeks  she  saw  nothing  but 
Martin,  and  for  three  weeks  he  saw  nothing  but  Maggie. 

She  began  her  career  of  defiance  at  once  by  informing  Aunt  Anne 
that  she  was  now  going  out  every  morning  to  do  her  shopping. 
Considering  ths  confinement  to  the  house  that  her  life  had  always 
been,  this  was  such  a  declaration  of  independence  as  those  walls 
had  never  encountered  before.  But  Aunt  Anne  never  turned  one 
of  her  shining  neatly  ordered  hairs. 

"  Shopping,  my  dear  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  looking  her  full  in  the  face. 

"What  sort  of  shopping,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  "  There's  always  something 
every  day." 

Maggie  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  her  aunt  had  in  some 
way  mysteriously  defeated  her  by  this  sudden  abandonment  of  all 

205 


206  THE  CAPTIVES 

protest,  and  for  a  moment  the  mysterious  house  closed  around 
her,  with  its  shadows  and  dim  corners  and  the  little  tinkling  Chapel 
bell  in  the  heart  of  it.  But  the  thought  of  Martin  dissolved  the 
shadows,  and  off  she  went. 

They  agreed  to  meet  every  morning  at  eleven  o'clock  outside 
Hatchards,  the  bookseller's,  in  Piccadilly.  They  chose  that  place 
because  you  could  look  into  a  bookseller's  window  for  quite  a  long 
time  without  seeming  odd,  and  there  were  so  many  people  passing 
that  no  one  noticed  you.  Their  habit  then  was  to  walk  to  the 
corner  of  the  Green  Park  and  there  climb  on  to  the  top  of  a  motor 
omnibus  and  go  as  far  as  they  could  within  the  allotted  time. 
Maggie  never  in  after  life  found  those  streets  again.  They  had 
gone,  she  supposed,  to  Chelsea,  to  St.  John's  Wood,  to  the  heart 
of  the  city,  to  the  Angel,  Islington,  to  Westminster  and  beyond, 
but  places  during  those  three  weeks  had  no  names,  streets  had  no 
stones,  houses  no  walls,  and  human  figures  no  substantiality.  They 
tried  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  go  by  Tube,  but  they  missed  the 
swing  of  the  open  air,  the  rush  of  the  wind,  and  their  independence 
of  men  and  women.  Often  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  stay  with 
him  for  luncheon  and  the  afternoon,  but  she  was  wiser  than  he. 

"No,"  she  said,  "everything  depends  on  keeping  them  quiet. 
A  little  later  on  it  will  be  lovely.  You  must  leave  that  part  of 
it  to  me." 

She  promised  him  definitely  that  soon  they  should  go  to  a 
matinee  together,  but  she  would  not  give  her  word  about  a  whole 
evening.  In  some  strange  way  she  was  frightened  of  the  evening, 
although  she  had  already  pledged  her  word  to  him  on  something 
much  more  final :  "  No,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  when  the  mo- 
ment comes  for  me  to  leave  everything,  I  will  go,  but  he  shall 
know  that  I  am  not  doing  it  cheaply,  simply  for  an  evening's  fun." 
He  felt  something  of  that  too,  and  did  not  try  to  persuade  her. 
He  hugged  his  unselfishness ;  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  wanted  to  follow  somebody  else's  will;  with  the 
other  women  it  had  been  so  different,  if  they  had  not  wanted  to 
obey  him  he  had  left  them.  But  indeed  all  through  these  three 
weeks  they  were  discovering  themselves  and  one  another,  and,  as 
though  it  were  part  of  the  general  conspiracy,  only  the  best  part 
of  themselves.  On  the  top  of  the  'bus,  as  they  sat  close  together, 
their  hands  locked  under  his  overcoat,  the  world  bumping  and 
jolting,  and  jogging  about  their  feet,  as  though  indeed  public 
houses  and  lamp-posts  and  cinemas  and  town  halls  and  sweet-shops 
were  always  jumping  up  tiptoe  to  see  whether  they  couldn't  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  lovers,  Martin  and  Maggie  felt  that  they  were 


PARADISE  207 

really  divine  creatures,  quite  modestly  divine,  but  nevertheless  safe 
from  all  human  ravages  and  earthly  failings,  wicked  and  cowardly 
thoughts,  and  ambitions  and  desires. 

Indeed,  during  those  three  weeks  Maggie  saw  nothing  of  Martin's 
weaknesses,  his  suspicions  and  dreads,  his  temper  and  self-abase- 
ment. The  nobility  that  Martin  had  in  him  was  true  nobility,  his 
C  very  weaknesses  came  from  his  sharp  consciousness  of  what  purity 
\  and  self-sacrifice  and  asceticism  really  were,  and  that  they  were 
I  indeed  the  only  things  for  man  to  live  by.  During  those  weeks 
he  saw  so  truly  the  sweetness  and  fidelity  and  simplicity  of  Maggie 
that  his  conscience  was  killed,  his  scruples  were  numbed.  He  did 
not  want  during  those  weeks  any  sensual  excitement,  any  de- 
pravity, any  license.  A  quiet  and  noble  asceticism  seemed  to  him 
perfectly  possible.    He  burst  out  once  to  Maggie  with : 

"  I  can't  conceive,  Maggie,  why  I  ever  thought  life  complicated. 
You've  straightened  everything  out  for  me,  made  all  the  troubles 
at  home  seem  nothing,  shown  me  what  nonsense  it  was  wanting 
the  rotten  things  I  was  always  after." 

But  Maggie  had  no  eloquence  in  reply — she  could  not  make  up 
fine  sentences;  it  embarrassed  her  dreadfully  to  tell  him  even  that 
she  loved  him,  and  when  he  was  sentimental  it  was  her  habit  to 
turn  it  off  with  a  joke  if  she  could.  She  wanted  terribly  to  ask 
him  sometimes  what  he  had  meant  when  he  said  that  he  didn't 
love  her  as  he  had  loved  other  women.  She  had  never  the  courage 
to  ask  him  this.  She  wondered  sometimes  why  it  had  hurt  her 
when  he  had  said  he  loved  her  as  though  she  were  a  man  friend, 
without  any  question  of  sex.  "  Surely  that's  enough  for  me,"  she 
would  ask  herself,  "  it  means  that  it's  much  more  lasting  and  safe." 
And  yet  it  was  not  enough. 

Nevertheless,  during  these  weeks  she  found  his  brotherly  care 
of  her  adorable,  he  found  her  shyness  divine. 

"  Every  other  woman  I  have  ever  been  in  love  with,"  he  told 
her  once,  "  I  have  always  kept  asking  them  would  they  ever  change, 
and  would  they  love  me  always,  and  all  that  kind  of  nonsense.  A 
man  always  begins  like  that,  and  then  the  time  comes  when  he 
wishes  to  God  they  would  change,  and  they  won't.  But  you're 
not  like  that,  Maggie,  I  know  you'll  never  change,  and  I  know 
that  I  shall  never  want  you  to." 

"  No,  I  shall  never  change,"  said  Maggie. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  three  weeks  a  little  incident  oc- 
curred that  was  trivial  enough  at  the  time,  but  appeared  afterwards 
as  something  significant  and  full  of  meaning.    This  incident  was 


208  THE  CAPTIVES 

a  little  talk  with  poor  Mr.  Magnus.  Maggie  always  thought  of 
him  as  "poor  Mr.  Magnus."  He  seemed  so  feckless  and  un- 
settled, and  then  he  wrote  novels  that  nobody  wanted  to  buy. 
He  always  talked  like  a  book,  and  that  was  perhaps  one  reason 
why  Maggie  had  avoided  him  during  these  last  months.  Another 
reason  had  been  that  she  really  could  not  be  sure  how  far  he  was 
in  the  general  conspiracy  to  drive  her  into  the  Chapel.  He  would 
not  do  that  of  his  own  will  she  was  sure,  but  being  in  love  with 
Aunt  Anne  he  might  think  it  his  sacred  duty,  and  Maggie  was 
terrified  of  "sacred  duties."  Therefore  when,  three  days  after 
that  great  evening  in  the  park,  he  caught  her  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  her  first  impulse  was  to  run  away;  then  she  looked  at  him 
and  found  that  her  love  for  the  world  in  general  embraced 
him  too  "  if  only  he  won't  talk  like  a  book,"  she  thought  to  her- 
self. 

He  looked  more  wandering  than  ever  with  his  high  white  collar, 
his  large  spectacles,  and  his  thin,  dusty  hair;  the  fire  of  some 
hidden,  vital  spirit  burnt  beneath  those  glasses,  and  his  face  was 
so  kindly  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  herself  for  having  avoided  him 
so  often. 

"  Both  the  aunts  are  at  Miss  Avies',"  she  said. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  rather  blankly. 

"Perhaps  I'll  come  another  time,"  and  he  turned  towards  the 
door. 

"  No,"  she  cried.    "  You  won't — I  haven't  seen  you  for  months." 

"  That's  not  my  fault,"  he  answered.  "  I  thought  we  were  to 
have  been  friends,  and  you've  run  away  every  time  you  saw  the 
corner  of  my  dusty  coat  poking  round  the  door." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  have — I've  been  frightened  of  every  one 
lately." 

"And  you're  not  now?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  with  that 
sudden  bright  sharpness  that  was  so  peculiarly  his. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  answered.     "I'm  frightened  of  nobody." 

He  said  nothing  to  that,  but  stared  fixedly  in  front  of  him. 

"  I'm  in  a  bad  mood,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  trying  for  weeks  to 
get  on  with  a  novel.  Just  a  fortnight  ago  a  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  took  shelter  from  the  rain  in  the  doorway  of  a 
deserted  house — they're  still  there  now,  and  they  haven't  said  a 
word  to  one  another  all  that  time." 

"  Why  not  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  They  simply  won't  speak,"  he  answered  her. 

"  Well  then,  I  should  start  another  story,"  said  Maggie  brightly. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.    "What's  the  use  of  starting 


PARADISE  209 

one  if  you  know  you're  never  going  to  finish  it,  what's  the  use  of 
finishing  it  if  you  know  no  one  is  ever  going  to  read  it  ? " 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  You've  changed.  When  I  saw  you  last  you  told  me  that  you 
didn't  mind  whether  any  one  ever  read  them  or  not,  and  that  you 
just  wrote  them  because  you  loved  doing  them." 

"  Every  author,"  said  Mr.  Magnus  gloomily,  "  says  that  to  him- 
self when  he  can't  sell  his  books,  but  it's  all  vainglory,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  can't  help  being  glad,"  Maggie  answered.  *  There  are  such 
interesting  things  you  might  do.  I  can't  imagine  why  any  one 
writes  books  now  when  fhere  are  so  many  already  in  existence 
that  nobody's  read." 

He  wasn't  listening  to  her.  He  looked  up  suddenly  and  said 
quite  wildly: 

"  It's  terrible  all  this  that's  going  on.  You  know  about  it,  of 
course — Warlock's  visions  I  mean  and  the  trouble  it's  making. 
I'm  outside  it  and  you're  outside  it,  but  we're  being  brought  into 
it  all  the  same — how  can  we  help  it  when  we  love  the  people  who 
are  in  it?  It's  so  easy  to  say  that  it's  nonsense,  that  people  ought 
to  be  wiser  nowadays;  that  it's  hysteria,  even  insanity — I  know  all 
that  and,  of  course,  I  don't  believe  for  a  moment  that  God's 
coming  in  a  chariot  of  fire  on  New  Year's  Eve  especially  for  the 
benefit  of  Thurston,  Miss  Avies  and  the  rest,  but  that  doesn't  end- 
it — it  ought  to  end  it,  but  it  doesn't.  There's  more  in  some  people'6 
madness  than  in  other  people's  sanity,  and  anyway,  even  if  it's  all 
nonsense  it  means  life  or  death  to  your  aunt  and  some  of  the 
others,  and  it  means  a  certain  breaking  up  of  all  this  place.  And 
it  probably  means  the  triumph  of  a  charlatan  like  Thurston  and 
the  increase  of  humbug  in  the  world  and  the  discouragement  of  all 
the  honest  adventurers.  I  call  myself  an  adventurer,  you  know, 
Miss  Maggie,  although  I'm  a  poor  specimen — but  I'm  damned  if 
it  isn't  better  to  be  a  poor  adventurer  than  to  be  a  fat,  swollen, 
contented  stay-at-home  who  can  see  just  as  far  as  his  nose  and  his 
cheque-book  and  might  be  just  as  well  dead  as  alive — I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  added  suddenly,  "for  ewearing — I'm  not  myself,  I'm 
not  really." 

She  could  see  indeed  that  he  was  in  great  agitation  of  mind, 
and  some  of  this  agitation  communicated  itself  to  her.  Had  she 
not  been  selfish  in  forgetting  all  this  through  her  own  happiness? 
He  was  right,  she  was  part  of  it  all,  whether  6he  wished  or  no. 

"  What  do  you  think,"  she  asked,  dropping  her  voice  a  little, 
*  is  the  real  truth  about  it  ? " 

"  The  real  truth  " — he  looked  at  her  suddenly  with  a  tender, 


210  THE  CAPTIVES 

most  charming  smile  that  took  away  his  ugliness.  "Ah,  that's 
a  tremendous  question.  Part  of  the  truth  is  that  Warlock's  been 
praying  so  much  and  eating  so  little  that  it  would  be  odd  indeed 
if  he  didn't  see  visions  of  some  sort.    And  part  of  the  truth  is  that 

f  there  are  a  lot  of  women  in  the  world  who'll  believe  simply  any- 
thing that  you  tell  them.  It's  part  of  the  truth,  too,  that  there 
are  scoundrels  in  the  world  who  will  take  advantage  of  anybody's 
simple  trust  to  fill  their  pockets.  But  that's  not  all,"  he  went  on, 
shaking  his  head,  "no,  that's  not  all.    It's  part  of  the  truth  tha?\ 

r  there  is  a  mystery,  and  that  human  beings  will  go  on  searching  ,; 
whatever  all  the  materialists  and  merchants  in  the  world  can  trgj 
to  do  to  stop  them.  I  remember  years  ago  an  old  man,  a  little 
off  his  dot,  telling  my  father  that  he,  the  old  man,  was  a  treasure 
hunter.  He  told  my  father  that  the  world  was  divided  into  two 
halves,  the  treasure  hunters  and  the  Town  Councillors,  and  that 
the  two  halves  would  never  join  and  never  even  meet.  My  father, 
who  was  a  practical  man,  said  that  the  old  idiot  should  be  shut  up 
in  an  asylum,  and  eventually  I  believe  he  was.  *  We'll  have  him 
going  off  one  day,'  my  father  said,  '  in  a  cargo  boat  with  a  map  in 
his  pocket,  looking  for  gold  pieces.'  But  it  wasn't  gold  pieces  he 
was  after." 

To  Maggie  it  was  always  irritating  the  way  that  Mr.  Magnus 
would  wander  away  from  the  subject.  She  brought  him  back  now 
with  a  jerk. 

"No,  but  what  do  you  think  is  going  to  happen?"  she  asked 
him. 
,       "I  don't  know,"  he  answered.    "  I  can't  tell,  but  I  know  all  my 
happiness  here  is  coming  to  an  end,  and  I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do.    If  I  were  a  strong  man  I  would  go  out  and  find  all  the 
other  treasure  hunters,  all  the  vicious  ones,  and  the  diseased,  and 
the  drunkards  and  the  perverted,  and  I  would  try  to  found  some 
kind  of  a  society  so  that  they  should  recognise  one  another  all 
the  world  over  and  shouldn't  feel  so  lonely  and  deserted  and  hope- 
lessly done  for.    I  don't  mean  a  society  for  improving  them,  mind 
you,  or  warning  them  or  telling  them  they'll  go  to  prison  if  they_^^ 
jdon't  do  better,  that's  none  of  my  business.    But  it  seems  to  be  a 
solemn  fact  that  you  aren't  a  treasure  hunter  until  there's  some- 
I    thing  wrong  with  you,  until  you've  got  a  sin  that's  stronger  than 
J    you  are,  or  until  you've  done  something  that's  disgraceful  in  the  / 
I    eyes  of  the  world — not  that  I  believe  in  weakness  or  in  giving  way 
to  things.    No  one  admires  the  strong  and  the  brave  more  than  I 
do.    I  think  a  man's  a  fool  if  he  doesn't  fight  as  hard  as  he  can. 
But  there's  a  brotherhood  of  the  dissatisfied  and  the  uneasy  and 


r         or* 


PARADISE  211 

,  the  anxious-hearted,  and  I  believe  it's  they  who  will  discover 
'  the  Grail  in  the  end  if  it's  ever  going  to  be  discovered  at 
all." 

He  broke  off,  then  said  restlessly :  "  I  think  things  out,  you  know, 
and  at  last  I  come  to  a  conclusion,  and  it  ends  by  being  a  plati- 
tude that  all  the  goody,  goody  books  have  said  times  without 
number.  But  all  the  same  that  doesn't  prevent  it  from  being 
my  discovery.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  goodness  and  nothing  to 
do  with  evil,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  strength,  and  nothing  to  do 
with  weakness ;  it  simply  is  that  there  are  some  people  who  want 
/"what  they  can  see  and  no  more,  and  there  are  others,  the  baffled, 
|  fighting  and  disordered  others,  for  whom  nothing  that  they  can  see 
with  their  mortal  eyes  is  enough,  and  who'll  be  restless  all  their 
I  days  with  their  queer  little  maps  and  their  mysterious,  thumbed 
/  directions  to  some  island  or  other  that  they'll  never  reach  and 
[    never  even  get  a  ship  for."  ** 

He  stopped  and  there  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Maggie 
was  silent  because  she  never  knew  what  to  say  when  he  burst  into 
parables  and  divided  mankind,  under  strange  names,  into  dif- 
ferent camps.  And  yet  this  time  she  did  know  a  little  what  he 
was  after.  There  was  that  house  of  Katharine  Mark's  the  other 
day,  with  its  comfort  and  quiet  and  kind  smiling  clergyman — 
and  there  was  this  strange  place  with  all  of  them  in  an  odd  quiver 
of  excitement  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  But  she  couldn't 
speak  to  him  about  that,  she  couldn't  say  anything  to  him  at  all. 
He  cleared  his  throat  as  though  he  were  embarrassed  and  were 
conscious  that  he  had  been  making  a  fool  of  himself.  Maggie  felt 
that  he  was  disappointed  in  her.  She  was  sorry  for  that,  but  she 
was  as  she  was. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you're  happy,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  wist- 
fully.   He  got  up  and  stood  awkwardly  looking  at  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,"  he  said,  "that's  really 
what  I  came  for.  I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  won't  in  any 
case  leave  your  aunts  before  the  New  Year." 

She  got  up,  looked  at  him  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.    "  I  promise  that." 

The  year  had  only  a  week  or  two  more  to  run  and  she  was  not 
afraid  of  that  little  space  of  time.  He  seemed  to  want  to  say 
something  more,  but  after  hesitating  he  suddenly  made  a  bolt  for 
the  door  and  she  could  hear  him  stumbling  downstairs. 

She  forgot  him  almost  as  soon  as  he  had  left  the  house,  but  his 
words  nevertheless  brought  her  to  consider  her  aunts.  Next  morn- 
ing at  breakfast  time  she  had  a  further  reason  to  consider  them. 


212  THE  CAPTIVES 

Aunt  Elizabeth  met  her,  when  she  came  downstairs,  with  a  very 
grave  face. 

"  Your  aunt's  had  a  terrible  night,"  she  said.  "  She's  insisted  on 
coming  downstairs — I  told  her  not.  She  never  listens  to  anything 
I  say." 

Maggie  could  see  that  something  more  than  ordinary  had  oc- 
curred. Aunt  Elizabeth  was  on  the  edge  of  tears,  and  in  so 
confused  a  state  of  mind  that  she  put  sugar  into  her  egg,  and 
then  ate  it  with  a  puzzled  air  as  though  she  could  not  be  sure 
why  it  tasted  so  strange.  When  Aunt  Anne  came  in  it  was  plain 
enough  that  she  had  wrestled  with  demons  during  the  night. 
Maggie  had  often  seen  her  before  battling  with  pain  and  refusing 
to  be  defeated.  Now  she  looked  as  though  she  had  but  risen  from 
the  dead.  It  was  a  ghost  in  very  truth  that  stood  there;  a  ghost 
in  black  silk  dress  with  white  wristbands  and  a  stiff  white  collar, 
black  hair,  so  tightly  drawn  back  and  ordered  that  it  was  like  a 
shining  skull-cap.  Her  face  was  white,  with  the  effect  of  a  chalk 
drawing  into  which  live,  black,  burning  eyes  had  been  stuck.  But 
it  was  none  of  these  things  that  frightened  Maggie.  It  was  the 
expression  somewhere  in  the  mouth,  in  the  eyes,  in  the  pale  bony 
hands,  that  spoke  of  some  meeting  with  a  torturer  whose  powers 
were  almost  omniscient — almost,  but  not  quite.  Pain,  sheer  physi- 
cal, brutal  pain,  came  into  the  room  hulking,  steering  behind  Aunt 
Anne's  shoulder.  It  grinned  at  Maggie  and  said,  "You  haven't 
begun  to  feel  what  I  can  do  yet,  but  every  one  has  his  turn.  You 
needn't  flatter  yourself  that  you're  going  to  escape." 

When  Aunt  Anne  moved  now  it  was  with  infinite  caution,  as 
though  she  were  stalking  her  enemy  and  was  afraid  lest  any  in- 
cautious gesture  should  betray  her  into  his  ambush.  No  less 
marked  than  her  torture  was  her  courage  and  the  expectation  that 
sustained  that  courage.  She  had  her  eyes  set  upon  something  very 
sure  and  very  certain.  Maggie  was  afraid  to  think  what  that 
expectation  might  be.  But  Maggie  had  grown  during  these  last 
weeks.  She  did  not  now  kiss  her  aunt  and  try  to  show  an  affection 
which  was  not  so  genuine  as  she  would  have  liked  it  to  be  by 
nervous  little  demonstrations.     She  said  gravely: 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Aunt  Anne,  that  you  have  had  so  bad  a  night. 
Shall  I  stay  this  morning  and  read  to  you  ?  " 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  realised  with  sharp  pain  what  giving  up 
her  meeting  with  Martin  meant. 

"What  were  you  going  to  do,  dear?"  asked  Aunt  Anne,  her 
eyes  seeing  as  ever  far  beyond  Maggie  and  the  room  and  the  house. 
As  she  spoke  Thomas,  the  cat,  came  forward  and  began  rubbing 


PARADISE  213 

himself  very  gently,  as  though  he  were  whispering  something  to 
his  mistress,  against  her  dress.  Maggie  had  an  impulse,  60  strong 
that  it  almost  defeated  her,  to  burst  out  with  the  whole  truth.  She 
almost  said :  "  I'm  going  out  to  meet  Martin  Warlock,  whom  I  love 
and  with  whom  I'm  going  to  live."  She  hated  deceit,  she  hated 
lies.  But  this  was  some  one  else's  secret  as  well  as  her  own,  and 
telling  the  truth  now  would  only  lead  to  much  pain  and  distress, 
and  then  more  lies  and  more  deceit. 

So  she  said: 

"  I'm  going  to  Piccadilly  to  get  some  things  for  Aunt  Elizabeth." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth,  "  she  saves  me  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.    She's  a  good  girl." 

"I  know  she's  a  good  girl,"  said  Aunt  Anne  softly. 

It  was  strange  to  remember  the  time  not  so  long  ago  when  to 
run  out  of  the  house  and  post  a  letter  had  seemed  a  bold  defiant 
thing  to  do  threatened  with  grave  penalties.  The  aunts  had 
changed  their  plans  about  her  and  had  given  her  no  reasons  for 
doing  so.  No  reasons  were  ever  given  in  that  house  for  anything 
that  was  done.  The  more  Maggie  went  out,  the  more  she  was 
drawn  in. 

On  her  way  to  Martin  that  morning  the  figure  of  Aunt  Anne 
haunted  her.  She  felt  for  a  brief  moment  that  she  would  do  any- 
thing, yes,  even  surrender  Martin,  to  ease  her  aunt's  pain.  And 
then  she  knew  that  she  would  not,  and  she  called  herself  cruel  and 
selfish  and  felt  for  an  instant  a  dark  shadow  threatening  her  be- 
cause she  was  so.  But  when  she  saw  Martin  outside  Hatchard's 
she  forgot  it  all.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that  during  those  weeks 
they  neither  of  them  asked  any  questions  about  their  home  affairs. 
It  was  as  though  they  both  inwardly  realised  that  there  was  trouble 
for  them  of  every  kind  waiting  outside  and  that  they  could  only 
definitely  realise  their  happiness  by  building  a  wall  around  them- 
selves. They  knew  perhaps  in  their  secret  hearts,  or  at  any  rate 
Martin  knew,  that  they  could  not  hold  their  castle  for  long.  But 
/is  not  the  gift  of  three  perfect  weeks  a  great  thing  for  any  human 
being  to  be  given — and  who  has  the  temerity,  the  challenging 
I  audacity,  to  ask  with  confidence  for  even  so  much? 

On  this  particular  morning  Martin  said  to  her: 

"  Before  we  get  into  the  'bus,  Maggie,  you've  got  to  come  into 
a  shop  with  me."  He  was  especially  boyish  and  happy  and  natu- 
ral that  morning.  It  was  strange  how  his  face  altered  when  he 
was  happy.  His  brow  was  clear,  his  eyes  were  bright,  and  he  had 
a  kind  of  crooked  confident  smile  that  must  have  won  anybody's 
heart.    His  whole  carriage  was  that  of  a  boy  who  was  entering  life 


214  THE  CAPTIVES 

for  the  first  time  with  undaunted  expectation  that  it  could  give 
him  nothing  but  the  best  and  jolliest  things.  Maggie  as  she 
looked  at  him  this  morning  caught  her  breath  with  the  astonish- 
ing force  of  her  love  for  him.  "  Oh,  how  I'll  look  after  him,"  was 
her  thought.    "  He  shall  never  be  unhappy  again." 

They  crossed  the  street  together,  and  stood  for  a  moment  close 
together  on  the  kerb  in  the  middle  way  as  though  they  were  quite 
alone  in  the  world.  She  caught  his  arm  and  they  ran  before  a 
charging  motor-'bus,  laughing.  People  turned  back  and  looked  at 
them,  so  happy  they  seemed.  They  walked  up  Bond  Street  and 
Martin  drew  her  into  a  jeweller's.  She  had  never  possessed  any 
ornament  except  her  coral  necklace  in  all  her  life  and  she  knew 
now  for  the  first  time  how  terribly  she  liked  beautiful  things. 
It  was  useless  of  her  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  know  that  he  was 
going  to  give  her  something.  She  did  not  pretend.  A  very  thin 
old  man,  who  looked  like  one  of  the  prophets,  drawn  out  of  the 
wilderness  and  clothed  by  the  most  fashionable  of  London  tailors, 
looking  over  their  shoulders  as  he  talked  to  them  because  he  saw 
at  once  that  they  were  not  customers  who  were  likely  to  add  very 
much  to  his  shop's  exchequer,  produced  a  large  tray,  full  of  rings 
that  glittered  and  sparkled  and  danced  as  though  they'd  been  told 
to  show  themselves  off  to  the  best  possible  advantage.  But  for 
Maggie  at  once  there  was  only  one  possible  ring.  It  was  a  thin 
hoop  of  gold  with  three  small  pearls  set  in  the  middle  of  it; 
nothing  very  especial  about  it,  it  was  in  fact  less  striking  than 
almost  any  other  ring  in  the  tray.  Maggie  looked  at  the  ring 
and  the  ring  looked  at  Maggie.  It  was  as  though  the  ring  said, 
"  I  shall  belong  to  you  whether  you  take  me  or  no." 

"  Now,"  said  Martin  with  a  little  catch  in  his  throat,  "  you  make 
your  choice,  Maggie."  He  was  not  a  millionaire,  but  he  did  hon- 
estly intend  that  whatever  ring  she  chose  she  should  have. 

"  Oh,"  said  Maggie,  whispering  because  the  shop  was  so  large  and 
the  prophet  so  indifferent,  "don't  you  think  you'd  better  choose?" 

At  the  same  time  she  felt  the  anxious  gaze  of  the  three  little 
pearls  upon  her. 

"  No,"  said  Martin,  "  I  want  to  give  you  what  you'd  like." 

"  I'd  like  what  you'd  like,"  said  Maggie,  still  whispering. 

At  this  banality  the  prophet  made  a  little  impatient  movement 
as  though  he  really  could  not  be  expected  to  stand  waiting  there  for 
ever.  Also  a  magnificent  lady,  in  furs  so  rich  that  you  could  see 
nothing  of  her  but  her  powdered  nose,  was  waving  ropes  of  pearls 
about  in  a  blase  manner  very  close  to  them,  and  Maggie  had  a 
strange,  entirely  unreasonable  fear  that  this  splendour  would  sud- 


PAEADISE  215 

denly  turn  round  and  snatch  the  little  pearl  ring  and  go  off 
with  it. 

"I'd  like  that  one,"  said  Maggie,  pointing.  She  heard  the 
prophet  sniff  his  contempt,  but  she  did  not  care. 

Martin,  although  he  would  willingly  have  given  her  the  most 
gorgeous  ring  in  the  shop,  was  delighted  to  find  that  her  taste  was 
so  good,  and  like  herself.  He  had  great  ideas  about  taste,  some 
of  his  secret  fears  had  been  lest  her  strange  uncouth  upbringing 
should  have  caused  her  to  like  gaudy  things.  He  could  have 
hugged  her  before  them  all  when  she  chose  that  particular  ring, 
which  he  had  himself  noticed  as  the  prettiest  and  neatest  there. 

"  Just  see  whether  it  fits,  darling,"  he  said.  At  the  word  "  dar- 
ling" the  prophet  cast  another  despairing  look  about  the  shop,  as 
though  he  knew  well  the  length  of  time  that  lovers  could  take 
over  these  things  if  they  once  put  their  hearts  into  it.  Maggie 
was  ashamed  of  her  stubby  finger  as  she  put  her  hand  forward — 
but  the  ring  fitted  exactly. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Martin.  "  Now  we'll  have  this  put  into  a 
ease." 

"  How  wonderful  he  is,"  thought  Maggie.  Not  as  other  women 
might  have  thought,  "I  wonder  how  many  times  he's  done  this 
before."  Maggie  thought  then  that  it  would  be  more  proper  to 
retire  a  little  so  that  she  should  not  know  the  price — and  she  stood 
in  the  doorway  of  the  shop,  looking  upon  the  wind  and  weather  in 
Bond  Street  and  the  magnificent  motor  car  that  belonged  to  the 
lady  with  the  pearls  and  a  magnificent  chauffeur,  who  was  so 
superior  that  it  was  probable  that  the  lady  with  the  pearls  be- 
longed to  him — and  she  saw  none  of  these  things,  but  was  con- 
scious of  herself  and  Martin  wrapt  together  in  a  mist  of  happiness 
that  no  outside  force  could  penetrate. 

As  they  walked  away  from  the  shop  she  said:  "Of  course  I 
won't  be  able  to  wear  it." 

He  put  the  little  square  box,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper,  into  her 
hand,  and  answered:  "You  can  wear  it  on  a  ribbon  under  your 
dress." 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  whispered,  pressing  his  hand  for  a  moment. 

They  did  not  climb  on  to  a  'bus  that  morning,  but  walked  ahead 
Mindly,  blissfully,  they  did  not  know  whither.  They  were  now  in 
wild  days  at  the  end  of  November  and  the  weather  was  tempes- 
tuous, the  wind  blowing  with  a  screaming  fury  and  black  clouds 
scudding  across  the  sky  like  portents.  Little  heavy  drops  of  rain 
fell  with  a  sudden  urgency  as  though  they  were  emphasising  some 
secret;  figures  were  swept  through  the  streets  and  the  roar  of  the 


216  THE  CAPTIVES 

wind  was  so  vehement  that  the  traffic  seemed  to  make  no  sound. 
And  yet  nothing  happened — no  great  storm  of  rain,  no  devastating 
flood.    It  was  a  day  of  warning. 

They  noticed  nothing  of  the  weather.  It  might  have  been  a 
world  of  burning  sunshine  for  all  they  saw  of  it. 

"  You  know,"  said  Martin,  "  I've  never  liked  giving  any  one  any- 
thing so  much  as  I  liked  giving  you  that  ring." 

"I  wish  I  could  give  you  something  too,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  can,"  he  said.  *  Some  little  thing  that  I'll  carry 
about  with  me  always.  .  .  .  Oh,  Maggie ! "  he  went  on.  "  Isn't 
it  strange  how  easy  it  is  to  be  good  when  no  one  worries  you. 
These  last  ten  days  with  you  I  couldn't  have  done  anything  wrong 
if  I  tried.  It  isn't  fair  to  say  we  can  help  ourselves.  We  can't. 
Something  just  comes  along  and  seizes  you  and  makes  you  do 
wrong." 

"Oh,   I  don't  know,"   said  Maggie.     "Don't  let's   talk   about 
those   things.     It's   like   Mr.    Magnus,   who    says   we're   treasure 
hunters  or  pools  of  water,  or  old  men  in  asylums.    I  don't  under- 
stand all  that.     I'm  just  Maggie  Cardinal. — All  the  same  I  be-"""} 
(lieve  one  can  do  what  one  wants  to.     I  don't  believe  people  can    / 
make  one  do  things. 
,    "Bo  you  think  any  one  could  make  me  not  love  you  if  they 
tried  ?    I  shall  love  you  always,  whatever  happens.    I  know  I  shall 
never  change.     I'm  not  one  to  change.     I'm  obstinate.     Father 
used  to  say  '  obstinate  as  a  pig.' " 

That  made  her  think  of  the  old  days  at  St.  Dreot's,  just  then, 
as  they  seemed,  so  remote.  She  began  to  tell  him  of  those  old 
days,  of  the  Vicarage,  of  the  holes  in  the  floor  and  the  ceiling, 
of  her  loneliness  and  the  way  the  villagers  used  to  talk,  of  her 
solitary  walks  and  looking  down  on  to  Polchester  from  the  hill-top, 
of  her  father's  sudden  death,  of  Uncle  Mathew.  .    .    . 

"  He's  a  funny  old  codger,"  said  Martin.    "  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  "I  really  don't  know  how  he 
lives.    I'm  afraid  it's  something  rather  bad." 

"  I've  known  men  like  that,"  said  Martin,  "  plenty,  but  it's  funny 
that  one  of  them  should  be  connected  with  you.  It  doesn't  seem 
.as  though  you  could  have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  like  that." 

"  Oh,  but  I  like  him !  "  said  Maggie.  "  He's  been  very  kind  to 
me  often.  When  I  was  all  alone  after  father  died  he  was  very 
good — "  She  stopped  abruptly  remembering  how  he'd  come  into 
her  bedroom.  "Drink's  been  his  trouble,  and  never  having  any 
money.  He  told  me  once  if  he  had  money  he'd  never  do  a  thing 
he  shouldn't" 


PARADISE  217 

f-  "  Yes,"  said  Martin.  "  That's  what  they  always  say  when  they  I 
haven't  any  money,  and  then  when  they  have  any  it's  worse  than  i 
ever."  ^ 

He  was  thinking,  perhaps,  of  himself.  At  any  rate  to  stop 
remorseful  thoughts  he  began  to  tell  her  about  his  own  childhood. 

"Mine  was  very  different  from  yours,  Maggie,"  he  said.  "I 
wasn't  lonely.  You  don't  know  what  a  fuss  people  made  of  me.  I 
was  conceited,  too.  I  thought  I  was  chosen,  by  God,  out  of  all  the 
world,  that  I  was  different  from  every  one  else,  and  better  too. 
When  I  was  only  about  nine,  at  home  one  Sunday  they  asked  me 
if  Fd  say  a  prayer,  and  I  did,  before  them  all,  made  it  up  and 
went  on  for  quarter  of  an  hour.  Lord!  I  must  have  been  an 
awful  child.  And  outside  the  religious  time  I  was  as  wicked  as 
I  could  be.  I  used  to  go  down  into  the  kitchen  and  steal  the  food 
and  I'd  dress  up  as  a  ghost  to  frighten  Amy  and  I'd  break  mother's 
china.  I  remember  once,  after  we'd  had  a  service  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  two  girls  had  gone  into  hysterics,  I  stole  down  into  the 
kitchen  in  my  nightdress  to  get  some  jam  and  I  found  one  of  the 
Elders  making  love  to  the  cook.  They  were  both  so  fat  and  he  had 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  off  and  he  was  kissing  her  neck.  My  word, 
they  were  frightened  when  they  saw  me  standing  there!  After 
that  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with  the  cook.  .  .  .  We  used  to  have 
prayer  meetings  in  the  drawing-room,  and  sometimes  father  would 
pray  so  hard  that  the  glass  chandelier  would  shake  and  rattle  till 
I  used  to  think  it  would  come  down. 

"  And  the  funny  thing  was  that  one  minute  I'd  be  pinching  Amy 
who  was  kneeling  next  to  me  and  the  next  I'd  be  shaking  with 
religion  and  seeing  God  standing  right  in  front  of  me  by  the  coal- 
scuttle. Such  a  mix-up !  ...  it  was  then  and  so  it  is  now.  Amy 
always  hated  me.  She  was  really  religious  and  she  thought  I  was 
a  hypocrite.  But  I  wasn't  altogether.  There  was  something  real 
in  it  and  there  still  is." 

"  Didn't  you  go  to  school  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  No,  that  was  the  mistake.  They  never  sent  me.  Father  loved 
me  too  much  and  he  wanted  to  keep  me  always  with  him.  He 
tried  to  teach  me  himself  but  I  never  learnt  anything.  I  always 
knew  I  could  turn  them  round  my  little  finger.  I  always  knew 
he'd  rather  do  anything  than  make  me  unhappy.  Sometimes  we 
had  lovely  times  together,  sitting  in  the  dusk  in  the  front  of  the 
fire.  Do  you  know,  Maggie,  I've  never  changed  in  my  love  for 
father?  I've  changed  in  everything  else,  but  in  that  never.  Yet 
I've  hurt  him  over  and  over  and  over  again.  I've  done  things.  ..." 
Here  he  broke  off.    To-day  was  to  be  happy;  Ithey  must  build  up 


;|th< 


218  THE  CAPTIVES 

their  walls  faster,  faster,  faster  to  keep  the  world  out.  He  would 
think  of  nothing,  nothing  but  the  present.  The  wind  blew  and 
the  heavy  drops  of  rain  fell,  one  and  one  and  one,  slowly  between 
the  gusts.    He  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"  Are  you  cold  I  " 

"No,  Martin  dear." 

"I  suppose  we  should  turn  back." 

"  Yes,  it's  getting  late." 

"  It  will  seem  hours  until  to-morrow." 

"  And  to  me  too." 

They  were  at  the  end  of  the  Green  Park.  There  was  no  one 
there.  They  kissed  and  clung  together  and  Maggie's  hand  was 
warm  inside  his  coat.  Then  they  turned  back  and  entered  the  real 
world  once  more.   .    .    . 

"  Now  we  must  have  our  matinee,"  Martin  said.  Maggie  could 
not  refuse  and  besides  she  herself  wanted  it  so  badly.  Also  the 
three  weeks  were  drawing  to  a  close,  and  although  she  did  not 
know  what  was  in  store  for  them,  she  felt,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  that  trouble  was  coming. 

"  Yes,  we'll  have  our  matinee,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  terrific  excitement  for  her,  apart  altogether  from  her 

love  for  Martin.    She  had,  of  course,  never  been  to  a  theatre.    She 

could  not  imagine  in  the  least  what  it  was  like.    It  so  happened, 

by  a  wonderful  chance,  that  a  note  came  from  Katherine  Mark 

asking  her  to  tea.    She  showed  this  to  the  aunts  and  said  that  she 

would  accept  it.     She  wrote  to  Katherine  Mark  and  refused  and 

told  Martin  that  for  that  Wednesday  afternoon  she  was  quite  free 

until  at  least  seven  o'clock.     She  wove  these  deceits  with  strong 

I  disgust.     She  hated  the  lies,  and  there  were  many,  many  times 

I  when  she  was  on  the  edge  of  confessing  everything  to  the  aunts. 

|  But  the  thought  of  what  would  follow  that  confession  held  her 

back.    She  could  not  make  things  harder  for  Martin. 

Nevertheless  she  wondered  why  when  she  felt,  in  herself,  no 
shame  at  all  at  the  things  that  she  was  doing,  she  should  have  to 
lie  to  cover  those  things  up.  But  everything  in  connection  with 
the  Chapel  seemed  to  lie. — The  place  was  wrapped  in  intrigue  and 
double-dealing.  How  long  would  it  be  before  she  and  Martin  were 
out  of  it  all?" 

She  was  to  meet  him  by  one  of  the  lions  in  Trafalgar  Square. 
She  bought  a  golden  chrysanthemum  which  she  stuck  into  the 
belt  of  her  black  dress  and  she  wore  her  coral  necklace.  She 
was  tired  of  black.  She  sometimes  thought  she  would  spend  all 
her  Three  Hundred  Pounds  on  clothes.  .    .    .  To-day,  as  soon  as 


PARADISE  219 

she  was  out  of  the  house  and  had  turned  the  corner  into  King 
William  Street,  she  slipped  on  her  ring.  She  kissed  it  before  she 
put  her  glove  on.  He  was  waiting  there  looking  like  a  happy- 
schoolboy,  that  way  that  she  loved  him  to  look.  That  slow  crooked 
smile  of  his,  something  that  broke  up  his  whole  face  into  geniality 
and  friendliness,  how  she  adored  him  when  he  looked  like  that! 
He  was  wearing  clothes  of  some  rough  red-brown  stuff  and  a  black 
knitted  tie 

She  was  carrying  something,  a  little  parcel  in  tissue  paper. 
She  pressed  it  into  his  hand  when  they  met.  He  opened  it,  just 
like  a  boy,  chuckling,  his  eyes  shining,  his  fingers  tearing  the  paper 
in  his  eagerness.  Her  present  was  a  round  locket  of  thin  plain 
gold  and  inside  was  the  funniest  little  black  faded  photograph  of 
Maggie,  her  head  only,  a  wild  untidy  head  of  hair,  a  fat  round 
schoolgirl  face — a  village  snapshot  of  Maggie  taken  in  St.  Dreot's 
when  she  was  about  fifteen. 

"  It's  all  I  had,"  she  said.  "  I  remembered  it  the  other  day  and 
I  found  it.  A  travelling  photographer  took  it  one  day.  He  came 
to  the  village  and  every  one  was  taken,  father  and  all.  It's  very 
bad  but  it  was  the  only  one." 

"  It's  wonderful,"  said  Martin,  and  truly  it  was  wonderful.  It 
had  caught  by  a  marvellous  chance,  in  spite  of  its  shabby  faded 
darkness,  the  very  soul  of  Maggie.  Was  it  her  hair,  her  untidy 
hair,  or  the  honesty  of  her  eyes,  or  the  strength  and  trustiness  of 
her  mouth?  But  then  it  was  to  any  one  who  did  not  know  her 
the  bad  dim  photograph  of  an  untidy  child,  to  any  one  who  did 
know  her  the  very  stamp  and  witness  of  Maggie  and  all  that  she 
was.  Maggie  had  spent  twenty-five  shillings  on  the  locket  (she  had 
had  three  pounds  put  away  from  her  allowance  in  her  drawer). 
It  was  a  very  simple  locket,  thin  plain  gold  round  and  smooth,  but 
good,  and  it  would  last. 

"  You  darling,"  whispered  Martin.  "  There  couldn't  have  been 
anything  more  like  you  if  you'd  been  taken  by  the  grandest 
photographer  in  London." 

They  started  off  towards  Shaftesbury  Avenue  where  the  theatre 
was,  and  as  they  went  a  funny  little  incident  occurred.  They  were 
both  too  happy  to  talk  and  Maggie  was  too  happy  even  to  think. 
Suddenly  she  was  aware  that  some  one  was  coming  towards  her 
whom  she  knew.  She  looked  and  tugged  herself  from  that  world 
of  Martin  and  only  Martin  in  which  she  was  immersed.  It  was 
the  large,  smiling,  rosy-cheeked,  white-haired  clergyman,  Mr. 
Trenchard.  Yes,  certainly  it  was  he.  He  had  recognised  her  and 
was  stopping  to  speak  to  her.    Martin  moved  on  a  little  and  stood 


220  THE  CAPTIVES 

waiting  for  her.  She  was  confused  and  embarrassed  but  pleased 
too  because  he  seemed  glad  to  see  her.  He  looked  the  very  picture 
of  a  well-dressed,  kindly,  genial  friend  who  had  known  her  all  his 
life.  He  was  wearing  a  beautifully  shining  top-hat  and  his  stiff 
white  collar  gleamed.  Yes,  he  was  glad  to  see  her  and  he  said  so. 
He  remembered  her  name.  "  Miss  Cardinal,"  he  called  her.  How 
had  she  been?  What  had  she  been  doing?  Had  she  seen  Mrs. 
Mark  ?  He  was  staying  with  his  sister  at  Brown's  Hotel  in  Some- 
where— she  didn't  catch  the  name  of  the  street.  His  sister  would 
be  so  glad  if  she  would  come  and  see  them  one  day.  Would  she 
come?  He  wouldn't  tie  her  down,  but  she  had  only  to  write  and 
say  she  was  coming.  .    .    . 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment  and  looked  in  her 
eyes  with  the  kindliest  friendliest  regard.  He  was  glad  to  have 
seen  her.    He  should  tell  his  sister.  .    .    . 

He  was  gone  and  Maggie  really  could  not  be  sure  what  she  had 
said.  Something  very  silly  she  could  be  certain.  Stupid  the 
pleasure  that  his  few  words  had  given  her,  but  she  felt  once 
again,  as  she  had  felt  in  Katherine  Mark's  drawing-room,  the  con- 
tact with  that  other  world,  that  safe,  happy,  comfortable,  assured 
world  in  which  everything  was  exactly  what  it  seemed.  She  was 
glad  that  he  liked  her  and  that  his  sister  liked  her.  Then  she 
could  not  be  so  wild  and  odd  and  uncivilised  as  she  often  was 
afraid  that  she  was.  She  rejoined  Martin  with  a  little  added  glow 
in  her  cheeks. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  Martin  asked  her  rather  sharply. 

She  told  him. 

C(  One  of  those  humbugging  parsons,"  he  said.  "  He  stood  over 
you  as  though  he'd  like  to  eat  you." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  he's  not  a  humbug,"  she  answered. 

w  You'd  be  taken  in  by  anybody,"  he  told  her. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shouldn't,"  she  said.    "  Now  forget  him." 

And  they  did.  By  the  time  they  had  reached  Piccadilly  Circus 
they  were  once  more  deep,  deep  in  one  another.  They  were  back 
in  their  dark  and  gleaming  wood. 

The  Lyric  Theatre  was  their  destination.  Maggie  drew  a  breath 
as  they  stepped  into  the  hall  where  there  stood  two  large  stout 
commissionaires  in  blue  uniforms,  gold  buttons,  and  white  gloves. 
People  pushed  past  them  and  hurried  down  the  stairs  on  either  side 
as  though  a  theatre  were  a  Nothing.  Maggie  stood  there  fingering 
her  gloves  and  feeling  lonely.  The  oil  painting  of  a  beautiful  lady 
with  a  row  of  shining  teeth  faced  her.  There  were  also  some 
palms  and  a  hole  in  the  wall  with  a  man  behind  it. 


PAEADISE  221 

Soon  they  too  passed  down  the  stairs,  curtains  were  drawn  back, 
and  Maggie  was  sitting,  quite  suddenly,  in  a  large  desert  of  gold 
and  red  plush,  with  emptiness  on  every  side  of  it  and  a  hungry- 
looking  crowd  of  people  behind  a  wooden  partition  staring  at  her 
in  such  a  way  that  she  felt  as  though  she  had  no  clothes  on.  She 
gave  a  hurried  glance  at  these  people  and  turned  round  blushing. 

"  Why  don't  they  sit  with  us  ? "  she  whispered  to  Martin. 

"  They're  the  Pit  and  we're  the  Stalls,"  he  whispered  to  her,  but 
that  comforted  her  very  little. 

"  Won't  people  come  and  sit  where  we  are  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Oh  yes ;  we're  early,"  he  told  her. 

Soon  she  was  more  composed  and  happier.  She  sat  very  close 
to  Martin,  her  knee  against  his  and  his  hand  near  to  hers,  just 
touching  the  outside  of  her  palm.  Her  ring  sparkled  and  the  three 
little  pearls  smiled  at  her.  As  he  breathed  she  breathed  too,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  their  bodies  rose  and  fell  as  one  body.  With- 
out looking  directly  at  him,  which  would,  she  knew,  embarrass 
him  before  all  those  hungry  people  behind  her,  she  could  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye  see  the  ruddy  brown  of  his  cheek  and  the 
hard  thick  curve  of  his  shoulder.  She  was  his,  she  belonged  to  no 
one  else  in  the  world,  she  was  his  utterly.  Utterly.  Ever  so 
swiftly  and  gently  her  hand  brushed  for  an  instant  over  his;  he 
responded,  crooking  his  little  finger  for  a  moment  inside  hers.  She 
smiled;  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  the  people  triumphantly, 
she  felt  a  deep  contented  rest  in  her  heart,  rich  and  full,  proud  and 
arrogant,  the  mother,  the  lover,  the  sister,  the  child,  everything  to 
him  she  was.  .    .    . 

People  came  in,  the  theatre  filled,  and  a  hum  of  talk  arose,  then 
the  orchestra  began  to  tune,  and  6oon  music  was  playing,  and 
Maggie  would  have  loved  to  listen  but  the  people  must  chatter. 

When  suddenly  the  lights  went  down  the  only  thing  of  which 
she  was  conscious  was  that  Martin's  hand  had  suddenly  seized  hers 
roughly,  sharply,  and  was  crushing  it,  pressing  the  ring  into  the 
flesh  so  that  it  hurt.  Her  first  excited  wondering  thought  then 
was: 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more  only  as  a  friend. — There's 
the  other  now  ..."  and  a  strange  shyness,  timidity,  and  triumph 
overwhelmed  her  so  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  her  body 
trembling. 

But  as  the  play  continued  she  must  listen.  It  was  her  very 
first  play  and  soon  it  was  thrilling  to  her  so  that  she  forgot, 
for  a  time,  even  Martin.  Or  rather  Martin  was  mingled  with  it, 
absorbed  in  it,  part  of  it,  and  she  was  there  too  sharing  with  him 


222  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  very  action  of  the  story.  It  was  a  very  old-fashioned  play 
about  a  little  Charity  girl  who  was  brought  up  by  a  kindly 
middle-aged  gentleman  who  cared  for  nothing  but  books.  He 
brought  her  up  on  his  own  plan  with  a  view  to  marrying  her  after- 
wards. But  meanwhile,  of  course,  she  saw  a  handsome  young  sol- 
dier who  was  young  like  herself,  and  she  was  naturally  bored  with 
the  studious  gentleman.  Maggie  shared  all  the  feelings  of  the 
Charity  girl.  Had  she  been  brought  up,  say  by  a  man  like  Mr. 
Trenchard  and  then  had  met  Martin,  why,  of  course,  she  could 
have  gone  only  one  way. 

The  soldier  was  not  like  Martin,  being  slim  and  curled  and 
beautiful,  nor  was  the  studious  gentleman  like  Mr.  Trenchard, 
being  thin  and  tall  with  a  face  like  a  monk  and  a  beautiful  voice. 

But  the  girl  was  like  Maggie,  prettier  of  course,  and  with  artful 
ways,  but  untidy  a,  little  and  not  very  well  educated.  At  the  first 
interval,  when  the  lights  were  up  and  the  band  was  playing  and 
the  people  walking,  Martin  whispered: 

"  Do  you  like  it,  Maggie  ? " 

"  I  love  it,"  she  answered. 

And  then  they  just  sat  there,  without  another  word  between 
them,  pressed  close  together. 

A  little  song  ran  through  the  play — one  of  Burns's  most  famous 
songs,  although  Maggie,  who  had  never  read  anything,  did  not 
know  that.    The  verses  were : 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

0  my  luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune! 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I: 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve, 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


PARADISE  223 

First  the  handsome  soldier  sang  this  to  the  Charity  girl,  and 
then,  because  it  was  a  sentimental  tune,  it  was  always  turning  up 
through  the  play,  and  if  one  of  the  characters  were  not  singing  it 
the  orchestra  was  quietly  playing  it.  Maggie  loved  it;  she  was 
not  sentimental  but  she  was  simple,  and  the  tune  seemed  at  once 
to  belong  to  herself  and  to  Martin  by  natural  right. 

As  the  story  developed  it  became  more  unreal  and  Maggie's 
unerring  knowledge  of  the  difference  between  sense  and  nonsense 
refused  to  credit  the  tall  handsome  villainness  who  confronted  the 
Charity  girl  at  the  ball.  The  Charity  girl  had  no  right  to  be  at 
the  ball  and  people  stood  about  in  unnatural  groups  and  pretended 
not  to  listen  to  the  loud  development  of  the  plot  and  no  one 
seemed  to  use  any  of  their  faculties.  Then  at  the  end,  when  the 
middle-aged  gentleman  nobly  surrendered  his  Charity  girl  to  the 
handsome  soldier,  the  little  tune  came  back  again  and  all  was 
well. 

They  came  out  of  the  theatre  into  lights  and  shadows  and  mists 
— cabs  and  omnibuses  and  crowds  of  people.  .  .  .  Maggie  clung 
to  Martin's  arm.  It  seemed  to  her,  dazzled  for  an  instant,  that  a 
great  arc  of  white  piercing  light  cut  the  black  street  and  that  in 
the  centre  of  this  arc  a  tree,  painted  green,  stood,  and  round  the 
tree  figures,  dark  shapes,  and  odd  shadows  danced.  She  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  The  long  shining  line  of  Shaftesbury 
Avenue  ran  out,  from  her  feet,  into  thick  clusters  of  silver  lights. 
The  tree  had  vanished  and  now  there  were  policemen  and  ladies 
in  hats  and  strange  mysterious  houses.  She  caught  above  it  all, 
between  the  roofs,  the  pale  flat  river  of  the  evening  sky  and  in 
this  river  stars  like  golden  buttons  floated.  The  moon  was  there 
too,  a  round  amber  coin  with  the  laughing  face  stamped  upon  it. 

"  What  time  is  it  ? "  she  asked  Martin. 

"  Half -past  five,"  he  said.  "  How  early  the  moon  rises.  It's 
only  climbing  now.    See  the  chimney's  tossing  it  about." 

"I  must  get  home." 

"  No,  no."  He  held  her  arm  fiercely.  "  You  must  come  to  tea. 
That's  part  of  the  programme.  We  have  plenty  of  time  before 
seven  o'clock." 

She  knew  that  she  ought  to  return.  Something  seemed  to  tell 
her,  as  she  stood  there,  that  now  was  the  moment  to  break  this 
off.  But  when  his  hand  was  on  her  arm,  when  he  was  so  close  to 
her.  she  could  not  leave  him.  She  would  have  one  hour  more.  .  .  . 
He  took  her  across  the  street,  down  into  darkness,  up  into  light. 
Then  they  went  into  a  shop,  up  some  stairs,  and  were  suddenly  in 
a  little  room  with  a  table  with  a  cloth,  a  window  looking  out  into 


224  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  lamp-lit  square,  cherry-coloured  curtains  and  gay  hunting  pic- 
tures on  the  walls.  Martin  pushed  a  bell  in  the  wall  and  a  stout 
waiter,  perspiring,  smiling,  a  napkin  in  his  hand,  came  to  the  door. 

"  Tea,"  said  Martin,  and  he  vanished. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  a  creaking  wicker  arm- 
chair near  the  empty  fireplace.  u  No  one  will  interrupt  us.  They 
know  me  here.  I  ordered  the  room  yesterday."  Tea  came,  but 
she  could  not  eat  anything.  In  some  strange  way  that  moment  in 
the  theatre  when  he  had  pressed  her  hand  had  altered  everything. 
She  recognised  in  herself  a  new  Maggie;  she  was  excited  with  a 
thick  burning  excitement,  she  was  almost  sleepy  with  the  strain 
of  it  and  her  cheeks  were  hot,  but  her  throat  icy  cold.  When  she 
told  him  that  she  wasn't  hungry,  he  said,  "  I'm  not  either."  Then 
he  added,  not  looking  at  her,  "That  fellow  won't  be  back  for 
an  hour." 

He  came  and  stood  by  her  looking  down  on  her.  He  bent  for- 
ward over  the  chair  and  put  his  hands  under  her  chin  and  pressed 
her  face  up  towards  his.    But  he  did  not  kiss  her. 

Then  he  took  her  hands  and  pulled  her  gently  out  of  the  chair, 
sat  down  on  it  himself,  then,  still  very  tenderly,  put  his  arms 
round  her  and  drew  her  down  to  him.  She  lay  back  against  him, 
her  cheek  against  his,  his  arms  tight  around  her. 

He  whispered  to  her  again  and  again,  "  Darling.  .  .  .  Darling. 
.   .   .  Darling." 

She  felt  now  so  terribly  part  of  him  that  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  her  own  identity.  His  hands,  softly,  tenderly  passed  up 
and  down  her  body,  stroking  her  hair,  her  cheeks,  her  arms.  Her 
mouth  was  against  his  cheek  and  she  was  utterly  motionless,  shiver- 
ing a  little  sometimes  and  once  her  hand  moved  up  and  caught 
his  and  then  moved  away  again. 

At  last,  as  it  seemed  from  an  infinite  distance,  his  voice  came 
to  her,  speaking  to  her. 

"Maggie,  darling,"  he  said,  "don't  go  back  till  late  to-night. 
You  can  say  that  those  people  asked  you  to  stay  to  dinner.  Your 
aunts  can't  do  anything.  Nothing  can  happen.  Stay  with  me 
here  and  then  later  we'll  go  and  have  dinner  at  a  little  place  I 
know  .  .  .  and  then  come  back  here  .  .  .  come  back  here  .  .  . 
like  this.  Maggie,  darling,  say  you  will.  You  must.  We  mayn't 
have  another  chance  for  so  long.  You're  coming  to  me  after- 
wards. What  does  it  matter,  a  week  or  two  earlier?  What  does 
it  matter,  Maggie?  Stay  here.  Let  us  love  one  another  and  have 
something  to  think  about  ...  to  remember  ...  to  remember 
...  to  remember.  ..." 


PARADISE  225 

His  voice  seemed  to  slip  away  into  infinity  as  voices  in  a  dream 
do.  She  could  not  say  anything  because  she  was  in  a  dream  too. 
She  could  only  feel  his  hand  stroking  her  face. 

He  seemed  to  take  her  silence  for  consent.  He  suddenly  kissed 
her  furiously,  pressing  her  head  back  until  it  hurt.    That  woke  her. 

She  pushed  his  arms  back  and  sprang  up.  Her  hands  were 
trembling.     She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Martin.  .    .    .  No,  not  now." 

"Why  not?"    He  looked  at  her  angrily  from  the  chair. 

His  face  was  altered,  he  was  frowning,  his  eyes  were  dark. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay  now."  Her  voice  shook  in  spite  of 
herself.    With  shaking  hands  she  patted  her  dress. 

"  Why  not  ? "  he  asked  again. 

"  I'm  not.  I  promised  the  aunts.  Not  now.  It  would  spoil 
everything." 

"  Oh,  very  well."  He  was  furious  with  her.  He  wouldn't  meet 
her  eyes. 

"Not  now."  She  felt  that  she  would  cry;  tears  flooded  her 
eyes.  "It's  been  so  lovely  .  .  .  Martin.  .  .  .  Don't  look  like 
that.    Oh,  I  love  you  too  much ! " 

She  broke  off.  With  a  sudden  movement  she  fell  at  his  feet; 
kneeling  there,  she  drew  his  hands  to  her  face,  she  kissed  them,, 
the  palms  of  his  hands  over  and  over  again. 

His  anger  suddenly  left  him.  He  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
kissed  her,  first  her  eyes,  then  her  cheeks,  then,  gently,  her  mouth. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Only  I  feel  somehow.  ...  I  feel  as. 
though  our  time  had  come  to  an  end." 

"  But  it  shan't  ? "  He  turned  upon  her  fiercely,  held  her  hands, 
looked  in  her  face. 

"Maggie,  do  you  swear  that  you'll  love  me  always,  whatever  I 
am,  whatever  I  do?" 

"I  swear,"  she  answered,  gazing  into  his  eyes,  "that  I'll  love 
you  always,  whatever  you  are,  whatever  you  do." 

Then  she  went  away,  leaving  him  by  the  table,  staring  after  her. 

In  the  street  she  saw  that  her  chrysanthemum  was  in  pieces,  torn 
and  scattered  and  destroyed.  She  slipped  off  the  ring  and  put  it 
into  her  pocket,  then,  with  forebodings  in  her  heart,  as  though  she 
did  indeed  know  that  her  good  time  was  over,  she  turned  towards 
home. 

She  was  right.  Her  good  time  was  over.  That  night  she  was 
left  alone.  Martha  let  her  in  and,  regarding  her  darkly,  said 
nothing.    The  aunts  also  said  nothing,  sitting  all  the  evening  under 


226  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  green  shade  of  the  lamp  in  the  drawing-room,  Aunt  Anne  read- 
ing a  pamphlet,  Aunt  Elizabeth  sewing.  Maggie  pretended  to 
read  but  she  saw  no  words.  She  saw  only  the  green  lamp  like  a 
dreadful  bird  suspended  there  and  Aunt  Anne's  chiselled  sanctity. 
Over  and  over  again  she  reasoned  with  herself.  There  was  no 
cause  for  panic.  Nothing  had  happened  to  change  things — and 
yet — and  yet  everything  was  changed. 

Everything  had  been  changed  from  that  moment  when  Martin 
pressed  her  hand  in  the  theatre.  Everything!  .  .  .  Danger  now 
of  every  sort.  She  could  be  brave,  she  could  meet  anything  if  she 
were  only  sure  of  Martin.  But  he  too  seemed  strange  to  her.  She 
remembered  his  dark  look,  his  frown  when  she  had  refused  him. 
Oh,  this  loneliness,  this  helplessness.  If  she  could  be  with  him, 
beside  him,  she  would  fear  nothing. 

That  night,  the  first  faint  suspicion  of  jealousy,  of  doubt,  an 
agonising  dart  of  pain  at  the  knowledge  of  what  it  would  mean 
to  her  now  if  he  left  her,  stirred  in  her  breast.  This  room  was 
stifling.  She  got  up  from  her  chair,  went  to  the  window,  looked 
out  between  the  thick  curtains  at  the  dark  deserted  street. 

"What  is  it,  Maggie?" 

"Nothing,  Aunt  Anne." 

"  You're  very  restless,  dear." 

"It's  close.    May  I  open  the  door?" 

"  A  little,  dear." 

She  opened  the  door  and  then  sat  there  hearing  the  Armed  Men 
sway  ever  so  slightly,  tap,  tap,  against  the  wall  in  the  passage. 

That  night  she  scarcely  slept  at  all,  only  tumbling  into  sudden 
nightmare  dreams  when  something  had  her  by  the  throat  and 
Martin  was  not  there. 

In  the  morning  as  soon  as  she  could  escape  she  hurried  to  Picca- 
dilly. Martin  was  waiting  for  her.  When  she  saw  him  she  realised 
at  once  that  her  good  time  was  indeed  over.  His  face  was  white 
and  strained.  He  scarcely  looked  at  her  but  stared  anxiously  up 
and  down  the  street. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Look  here,  Maggie,"  he  began,  still  scarcely  looking  at  her.  "  I 
must  get  back  at  once.  I  only  came  to  tell  you  that  we  must  drop 
our  meetings  for  the  next  day  or  two — until  it's  blown  over." 

"  Until  what's  blown  over,"  she  asked  him. 

"It's  my  father.  I  don't  know  what  exactly  has  happened. 
They'll  none  of  them  tell  me,  damn  them.  It's  Caroline  Smith. 
She's  been  talking  to  Amy  about  you  and  me.  I  know  that  be- 
cause of  what  Amy  said  about  you  at  breakfast  this  morning." 


PAEADISE  227 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  wouldn't  speak  out.  She  hinted.  But  she  admitted  that 
Caroline  Smith  had  told  her  something.  But  she  doesn't  matter. 
Nothing  matters  except  father.  He  mustn't  be  excited  just  now. 
His  heart's  so  bad.    Any  little  thing.  .    .    .  We  must  wait." 

She  saw  that  he  was  scarcely  realising  her  at  all.  She  choked 
down  all  questions  that  concerned  themselves.  She  simply  agreed, 
nodding  her  head. 

He  did  look  at  her  then,  smiling  as  he  used  to  do. 

"  It's  awfully  hard  on  us.  It  won't  be  for  more  than  a  day  or 
two.  But  I  must  put  things  right  at  home  or  it  will  be  all  up. 
I  don't  care  for  the  others,  of  course,  but  if  anything  happened 
to  father  through  me.  ..."  He  told  her  to  write  to  the  Charing 
Cross  post-office.  He  would  do  the  same.  In  a  day  or  two  it 
would  be  all  right.    He  pressed  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

When  she  looked  about  her  the  street  seemed  quite  empty 
although  it  was  full  of  people.  She  threw  up  her  head.  She 
wouldn't  be  beaten  by  anybody  .  .  .  only,  it  was  lonely  going  back 
to  the  house  and  all  of  them  .    .    .  alone  .    .    .  without  Martin. 

She  cried  a  little  on  her  way  home.  But  they  were  the  last 
tears  she  shed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   INSIDE   SAINTS 

MAGGIE,  when  she  was  nearly  home,  halted  suddenly.  She 
stopped  as  when  on  the  threshold  of  a  room  that  should  be 
empty  one  sees  waiting  a  stranger.  If  at  the  end  of  all  this  she 
should  lose  Martin!   .    .    . 

There  was  the  stranger  who  had  come  to  her  now  and  would 
not  again  depart.  She  recognised  the  sharp  pain,  the  almost  un- 
conscious pulling  back  on  the  sudden  edge  of  a  dim  pit,  as  some- 
thing that  would  always  be  with  her  now — always.  One  knows 
that  in  the  second  stage  of  a  great  intimacy  one's  essential  lone- 
liness is  only  redoubled  by  close  companionship.  One  asks  for  so 
much  more,  and  then  more  and  more,  but  that  final  embrace  is 
elusive  and  no  physical  contact  can  surrender  it.  But  she  was 
young  and  did  not  know  that  yet.  All  she  knew  was  that  she 
would  have  to  face  these  immediate  troubles  alone,  that  she  would 
not  see  him  for  perhaps  a  week,  that  she  would  not  know  what 
his  people  at  home  were  doing,  and  that  she  must  not  let  any  of 
these  thoughts  come  up  into  her  brain.  She  must  keep  them  all 
back :  if  she  did  not,  she  would  tumble  into  some  foolish  precipitate 
action. 

When  she  reached  home  she  was  obstinate  and  determined.  At 
once  she  found  that  something  was  the  matter.  During  luncheon 
the  two  aunts  sat  like  statues  (Aunt  Elizabeth  a  dumpy  and  squat 
one).  Aunt  Anne's  aloofness  was  coloured  now  with  a  very  human 
anger.  Maggie  realised  with  surprise  that  she  had  never  seen  her 
angry  before.  She  had  been  indignant,  disapproving,  superior,  for- 
bidding, but  never  angry.  The  eyes  were  hard  now,  not  with  re- 
ligious reserve  but  simply  with  bad  temper.  The  mist  of  anger 
dimmed  the  room,  it  was  in  the  potatoes  and  the  cold  dry  mutton, 
especially  was  it  in  the  hard  pallid  knobs  of  cheese.  And  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  although  she  was  frightened  by  her  sister's  anger  on 
this  occasion,  shared  in  it.  She  pursed  her  lips  at  Maggie  and 
moved  her  fat,  podgy  hand  as  though  she  would  like  to  smack 
Maggie's  cheeks. 

Maggie  was  frightened — really  frightened.  The  line  of  bold  in- 
dependence was  all  very  well,  but  now  risks  were  attached  to  it. 
If  she  swiftly  tossed  her  head  and  told  her  aunts  that  she  would 

228 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  229 

walk  out  of  the  house  they  might  say  "  Walk !  "  and  that  would 
precipitate  Martin's  crisis.  She  knew  from  the  way  he  had  looked 
at  her  that  morning  that  his  thoughts  were  with  his  father,  and  it 
showed  that  she  had  travelled  through  the  first  stage  of  her  inti- 
macy with  him,  that  she  could  not  trust  him  to  put  her  before  his 
own  family  troubles.  At  all  costs  she  must  keep  him  safe  through 
these  next  difficult  weeks,  and  the  best  way  to  keep  him  safe  was 
herself  to  remain  quietly  at  home. 

Of  all  this  she  thought  as  she  swallowed  the  hostile  knobs  of 
cheese  and  drank  the  tepid,  gritty  coffee. 

She  followed  her  aunts  upstairs,  and  was  not  at  all  surprised 
when  Aunt  Elizabeth,  with  an  agitated  murmur,  vanished  into 
higher  regions.    She  followed  Aunt  Anne  into  the  drawing-room. 

Aunt  Anne  sat  in  the  stiff-backed  tapestry  chair  by  the  fire. 
Maggie  stood  in  front  of  her.  She  was  disarmed  at  that  all- 
important  moment  by  her  desperate  sensation  of  defenceless  lone- 
liness. It  was  as  though  half  of  herself — the  man-half  of  herself 
— had  left  her.  She  tried  to  summon  her  pluck  but  there  was  no 
pluck  there.  She  could  only  want  Martin,  over  and  over  again 
inside  herself.  Had  any  one  been  ever  so  hopelessly  alone 
before  ? 

"  Maggie,  I  am  angry,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  She  said  it  as  though 
she  meant  it.  Amazing  how  human  this  strange  aloof  creature 
had  become.  As  though  some  coloured  saint  bright  with  painted 
wood  and  tinsel  before  whom  one  stood  in  reverence  slipped  down 
suddenly  and  with  fingers  of  flesh  and  blood  struck  one's  face.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  beautiful  hands  were  no  longer  thin  but 
were  hard  and  active. 

"  What  have  I  done,  aunt  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  You  have  not  treated  us  fairly.  My  sister  and  I  have  done 
everything  for  you.  You  have  not  made  it  especially  easy  for  us 
in  any  way,  but  we  have  tried  to  give  you  what  you  wanted.  You 
have  repaid  us  with  ingratitude." 

She  paused,  but  Maggie  said  nothing.    She  went  on : 

"  Lately — these  last  three  weeks — we  have  given  you  complete 
liberty.  I  advised  that  strongly  against  my  sister's  opinion  be- 
cause I  thought  you  weren't  happy.  You  didn't  make  friends 
amongst  our  friends,  and  I  thought  you  should  have  the  chance 
of  finding  some  who  were  younger  and  gayer  than  we  were.  Then 
I  thought  we  could  trust  you.  You  have  many  faults,  but  I  be- 
lieved that  you  were  honest." 

"  I  am  honest !  "  Maggie  broke  in.    Her  aunt  went  on : 

"You  have  used  the  liberty  we  gave  you  during  these  weeks  to 


230  THE  CAPTIVES 

make  yourself  the  talk  of  our  friends.  You  have  been  meeting 
Mr.  Martin  Warlock  secretly  every  day.  You  have  been  alone  with 
him  in  the  Park  and  at  the  theatre.  I  know  that  you  are  young 
and  very  ignorant.  You  could  not  have  known  that  Martin  War- 
lock is  a  man  with  whom  no  girl  who  respects  herself  would  be 
seen  alone " 

"That  is  untrue!"  Maggie  flamed  out. 

"  — and,"  went  on  Aunt  Anne,  "  we  would  have  forgiven  that. 
It  is  your  deceit  to  ourselves  that  we  cannot  forget.  Day  after 
day  you  were  meeting  him  and  pretending  that  you  went  to  your 
other  friends.  I  am  disappointed  in  you,  bitterly  disappointed.  I 
saw  from  the  first  that  you  did  not  mean  to  care  for  us,  now,  as 
well,  you  have  disgraced  us " 

Maggie  began :  "  Yes,  I  have  been  seeing  Martin.  I  didn't 
think  it  wrong — I  don't  now.  I  didn't  tell  you  because  I  was 
afraid  that  you  would  stop  me " 

"  Then  that  shows  that  you  knew  it  was  wrong." 

"  No,  Aunt  Anne — only  that  you  would  think  it  was  wrong.  I 
can  only  go  by  myself,  by  what  I  feel  is  wrong  I  mean.  I've 
always  had  to,  all  my  life.  It  would  have  been  no  good  doing 
anything  else  at  home,  because  father " 

She  pulled  herself  up.  She  was  not  going  to  defend  herself  or 
ask  for  pity.     She  said,  speaking  finally: 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  out  with  Martin  every  day.  I  went  to  the 
theatre  with  him,  too,  and  also  had  tea  with  him." 

Maggie  could  see  Aunt  Anne's  anger  rising  higher  and  higher 
like  water  in  a  tube.  Her  voice  was  hard  when  she  spoke  again — 
she  pronounced  judgment: 

"  We  see  now  that  you  were  right  when  you  said  that  you  had 
better  leave  us.  You  are  free  to  go  as  soon  as  you  wish.  You 
have,  of  course,  your  money,  but  if  you  care  to  stay  with  us  until 
you  have  found  some  work  you  must  now  obey  our  rules.  While 
you  remain  with  us  you  must  not  go  out  unless  my  sister  or  I 
accompany  you."  Then  her  voice  changed,  softening  a  little.  She 
suddenly  raised  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  appeal :  "  Oh,  Maggie, 
Maggie,  turn  to  God.  You  have  rebelled  against  Him.  You  have 
refused  to  listen  to  His  voice.  The  end  of  that  can  be  only  misery. 
He  loves,  but  He  also  judges.  Even  now,  within  a  day,  a  week,  He 
may  come  with  judgment.  Turn  to  Him,  Maggie,  not  because  I 
tell  you  but  because  of  the  Truth.  Pray  with  me  now  that  He 
may  help  you  and  give  you  strength." 

Because  she  felt  that  she  had  indeed  treated  them  badly  and 
must  do  just  now  what  they  wished,  she  knelt  down  on  the  draw- 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  231 

ing-room  carpet.  Aunt  Anne  also  knelt  down,  her  figure  stiff  like 
iron,  her  raised  hands  once  again  delicate  and  ghost-like. 

"  O  Lord  God,"  she  prayed,  "  this  Thy  servant  comes  to  Thee 
and  prays  that  Thou  wilt  give  her  strength  in  her  struggle  with 
the  Evil  One.  She  has  been  tempted  and  is  weak,  but  Thou  art 
strong  to  save  and  wilt  not  despise  the  least  of  these  Thy  children. 

"  Come,  O  Lord  the  Father,  and  take  Thy  daughter  into  Thy 
loving  care,  and  when  Thou  comest,  in  all  Thy  splendour,  to 
redeem  the  world,  I  pray  that  Thou  wilt  find  her  waiting  for  Thee 
in  holiness  and  meekness  of  heart." 

They  rose.  Maggie's  knees  were  sore  with  the  stiff  carpet.  The 
family  group  watched  her  from  the  wall  ironically. 

She  saw  that  in  spite  of  the  prayer  Aunt  Anne  had  not  forgiven 
her.  She  stood  away  from  her,  and  although  her  voice  now  was 
not  so  hard,  it  had  lost  altogether  the  tender  note  that  it  used  to 
have. 

"  Now,  Maggie,  you  must  promise  us  that  you  will  not  see 
Martin  Warlock  again." 

Maggie  flushed.    "  No,  aunt,  I  can't  promise  that." 

"  Then  we  must  treat  you  as  a  prisoner  whilst  you  are  with  us." 

"  If  he  wants  to  see  me  I  must  see  him." 

They  looked  at  one  another.  Aunt  Anne  was  like  a  man  just 
then. 

"  Very  well.  Until  you  give  us  your  promise  we  must  see  our- 
selves that  you  do  not  disgrace  us." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  It  was  as  though  a  heavy  iron 
door  had  rolled  to. 

Aunt  Anne  passed  Maggie  and  left  the  room. 

Well,  then,  there  was  the  situation.  As  she  remained  in  the 
empty  room  she  felt  relief  because  now  she  knew  where  she  was. 
If  only  she  could  keep  in  touch  with  Martin  then  nothing  else  at 
all  mattered.  But  that  must  be,  otherwise  she  felt  that  she  would 
rush  at  them  all  and  tread  them  down  and  break  doors  and  windows 
to  get  at  him. 

Meanwhile,  how  they  must  all  have  been  talking!  She  felt  no 
especial  anger  against  Caroline  Smith.  It  had  been  her  own  fault 
for  trusting  that  note  to  her  honour.  Caroline  had  no  honour,  of 
course.  Maggie  might  have  guessed  that  from  the  way  that  she 
talked  about  other  people.  And  then  probably  she  herself  was  in 
love  with  Martin.  .  .  .  She  sat  down,  staring  in  front  of  her, 
thinking.  They  all  knew.  Amy  Warlock,  Mr.  Thurston,  Miss  Avies 
— knew  about  that  wonderful,  marvellous  thing,  her  love  for 
Martin,  his  for  her.     They  were  turning  it  over  in  their  hands, 


232  THE  CAPTIVES 

soiling  it,  laughing  at  it,  sneering  at  it.  And  what  were  they 
doing  to  Martin?  At  that  thought  she  sprang  up  and  began  hur- 
riedly to  walk  about.  Oh,  they  must  leave  him  alone !  What  were 
they  saying  to  him?  They  were  telling  him  how  ridiculous  it  was 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  plain,  ugly  girl!  And  he?  Was 
he  defending  her?  At  the  sudden  suggestion  of  his  disloyalty 
indignation  fought  in  her  with  some  strange,  horrible  suspicion. 
Yes,  it  would  come  back,  that  thought.  He  was  weak.  He  had 
told  her  that  he  was.  He  was  weak.  She  knew  that  he  was.  She 
would  not  lie  to  herself.  And  then  at  the  thought  of  his  weak- 
ness the  maternal  love  in  her  that  was  the  strongest  instinct  in 
her  character  flooded  her  body  and  soul,  so  that  she  did  not  mind 
if  he  were  weak,  but  only  wanted  to  defend  him,  to  protect 
him.  .    .    . 

Strangely,  she  felt  more  sure  of  him  at  that  moment  when  she 
was  conscious  of  his  weakness  than  she  had  been  when  she  asserted 
his  strength.  Beneath  that  weakness  he  would  be  true  to  her  be- 
cause he  needed  her.  No  one  else  could  give  him  what  she  did; 
he  had  said  so  again  and  again.  And  it  would  always  be  so.  He 
would  have  to  come  back  to  her  however  often  he  denied  her. 

She  felt  happier  then.  She  could  face  them  all.  She  had  been 
bad  to  her  aunts,  too.  She  had  done  them  harm,  and  they  had  been 
nothing  but  goodness  to  her.  Apart  from  leaving  Martin  she  would 
do  all,  these  next  weeks,  to  please  them. 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  when  she  reached  it  she 
realised,  with  a  little  pang  of  fright,  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  No 
more  meetings  outside  Hatchards,  no  more  teas,  no  more  walks. 
.  .  .  She  looked  out  of  the  window  down  into  the  street.  It  was 
a  long  way  down  and  the  figures  walking  were  puppets,  not  human 
at  all.  But  the  thing  to  be  thought  of  now  was  the  question  of 
letters.  How  was  she  to  get  them  to  the  Strand  Office  and  receive 
from  them  Martin's  letters  in  return  ?  After  long,  anxious  thought 
there  seemed  to  be  only  one  way.  There  was  a  kitchen-maid,  Jane, 
who  came  every  morning  to  the  house,  did  odd  jobs  in  the  kitchen, 
and  went  home  again  in  the  evening.  Maggie  had  seen  the  girl 
about  the  house  a  number  of  times,  had  noticed  her  for  her  rebel- 
lious, independent  look,  and  had  felt  some  sympathy  with  her  be- 
cause she  was  under  the  harsh  dominion  of  Martha. 

Maggie  had  spoken  to  her  once  or  twice  and  the  girl  had  seemed 
grateful,  smiling  in  a  kind  of  dark,  tearful  way  under  her  untidy 
hair.  Maggie  believed  that  she  would  help  her;  of  course  the  girl 
would  get  into  trouble  were  she  discovered,  and  dismissal  would 
certainly  follow,  but  it  was  clear  enough  that  she  would  not  in  any 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  233 

case  be  under  Martha's  government  very  long.    Martha  never  kept 
kitchen-maids  for  more  than  a  month  at  a  time. 

She  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  her  first  letter,  sitting  on  her 
bed. 

Darling  Martin — There  has  been  an  explosion  here.  The  aunts 
have  told  me  to  give  you  up.  I  could  not  promise  them  that  I 
would  not  see  you  and  so  I  am  a  prisoner  here  until  I  leave  them 
altogether.  I  won't  leave  them  until  after  the  New  Year,  partly 
because  I  gave  a  promise  and  partly  because  it  would  make  more 
trouble  for  you  if  I  were  turned  out  just  now.  I  can't  leave  the 
house  at  all  unless  I  am  with  one  of  them,  so  I  am  going  to  try  and 
send  the  letters  by  the  kitchen-maid  here  who  goes  home  every  day, 
and  she  will  fetch  yours  when  she  posts  mine.  I'll  give  her  a  note 
to  tell  the  post  people  that  she  is  to  have  them.  Martin,  dear,  try 
and  write  every  day,  even  if  it's  only  the  shortest  line,  because  it 
is  dreadful  to  be  shut  up  all  day,  and  I  think  of  you  all  the  time 
and  wonder  how  you  are.  Don't  be  unhappy,  Martin — that's  the 
one  thing  I  couldn't  bear.  If  you're  not,  I'm  not.  There's  no 
reason  to  be  unhappy  about  me.  I'm  very  cheerful  indeed  if  I 
know  that  you  are  all  right.  You  are  all  right,  aren't  you?  I  do 
want  to  know  what  happened  when  you  got  home.  I  quite  under- 
stand that  the  one  thing  you  must  do  now  is  to  keep  your  father 
well  and  not  let  anything  trouble  him.  If  the  thought  of  me 
troubles  him,  then  tell  him  that  you  are  thinking  of  nothing  but 
him  now  and  how  to  make  him  happy.  But  don't  let  them  change 
your  feeling  for  me.  You  know  me  better  than  any  of  them  do 
and  I  am  just  as  you  know  me,  every  bit.  The  aunts  are  very 
angry  because  they  say  I  deceived  them,  but  they  haven't  any  right 
to  tell  me  who  I  shall  love,  have  they?  No  one  has.  I  am  myself 
and  nobody's  ever  cared  for  me  except  you — and  Uncle  Mathew,  so 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  think  of  anybody.  The  aunts  never 
cared  for  me  really — only  to  make  me  religious. 

But,  Martin,  never  forget  I  love  you  so  that  I  can  never  change. 
I'm  not  one  who  changes,  and  although  I'm  young  now  I  shall  be 
just  the  same  when  I'm  old.  I  have  the  ring  and  I  look  at  it  all 
the  time.  I  like  to  think  you  have  the  locket.  Please  write,  dear 
Martin,  or  I'll  find  it  very  difficult  to  stay  quiet  here,  and  I  know 
I  ought  to  stay  quiet  for  your  sake. 

Your  loving, 

Maggie. 

She  put  it  in  an  envelope,  wrote  the  address  as  he  had  told  her, 


234  THE  CAPTIVES 

and  then  set  out  to  find  Jane.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon now  and  the  house,  on  this  winter's  day,  was  dark  and 
dim. 

The  gas  was  always  badly  lit  in  the  passages,  spitting  and 
muttering  like  an  imprisoned  animal.  The  house  was  so  quiet 
when  Maggie  came  out  on  to  the  stairs  that  there  seemed  to  be  no 
one  in  it.  She  found  her  way  down  into  the  hall  and  saw  Thomas 
the  cat  there,  moving  like  a  black  ghost  along  the  floor.  He  came 
up  to  her  and  rubbed  himself  in  his  sinister,  mysterious  way 
against  her  dress.  When  she  turned  towards  the  green  baize  door 
that  led  towards  the  kitchen  regions  he  stood  back  from  her,  stole 
on  to  the  lower  steps  of  the  staircase  and  watched  her  with  steady, 
unblinking  eyes.  She  pushed  the  door  and  went  through  into 
the  cold  passage  that  smelt  of  cheese  and  bacon  and  damp  earth. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  one  about,  and  then  suddenly  the  pantry 
door  opened  and  Jane  came  out.  She  stopped  when  she  saw 
Maggie. 

"  Where's  Martha  ? "  asked  Maggie  in  a  low  voice. 

The  whisper  seemed  to  tell  Jane  at  once  that  this  was  to  be  a 
confidential  matter.  She  jerked  with  a  dirty  thumb  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen. 

"  In  there.  Cooking  the  dinner,"  she  whispered  back.  She  was 
untidy,  there  were  streaks  of  black  on  her  face,  but  her  eyes  looked 
up  at  Maggie  with  a  friendly,  roguish  glance,  as  though  they  had 
already  something  in  common.  Maggie  saw  that  she  had  no  time 
to  lose.    She  came  close  to  her. 

"  Jane,"  she  said,  "  I'm  in  trouble.  It's  only  you  who  can  help 
me.  Here's  a  letter  that  I  want  posted — just  in  the  ordinary  way. 
Can  you  do  that  for  me  ?  " 

Jane,  suddenly  smiling,  nodded  her  head. 

"  And  there's  something  else,"  Maggie  went  on.  "  To-morrow 
morning,  before  you  come  here,  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Strand 
post-ofBce — you  know  the  one  opposite  the  station — and  ask  for  a 
letter  addressed  to  me.  I've  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  here  that 
you're  to  be  given  any  letters  of  mine.  Give  it  to  me  somehow 
when  no  one's  looking.    Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Jane  nodded  her  head.  Maggie  gave  her  the  note  and  also  half- 
a-crown,  but  Jane  pushed  back  the  money. 

"  I  don't  want  no  money,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  You're 
the  only  one  here  decent  to  me." 

At  that  moment  the  kitchen  door  opened  and  Martha  appeared. 
When  she  saw  Jane  she  came  up  to  her  and  said :  "  Now  then, 
idling  again !    What  about  the  potatoes  ? " 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  235 

She  looked  at  Maggie  with  her  usual  surly  suspicion. 

"  I  came  down  for  a  candle,"  Maggie  said,  "  for  my  room.  Will 
you  give  me  one.  please  % " 

Jane  had  vanished. 

Martin,  meanwhile,  after  Maggie  left  him,  had  returned  home  in 
no  happy  state.  There  had  leapt  upon  him  again  that  mood  of 
sullen  impatient  rebellion  that  he  knew  so  well — a  mood  that  really 
was  like  a  possession,  so  that,  struggle  as  he  might,  he  seemed 
always  in  the  grip  of  some  iron-fingered  menacing  figure. 

It  was  possession  in  a  sense  that  to  many  normal,  happy  people 
in  this  world  is  so  utterly  unknown  that  they  can  only  scornfully 
name  it  weakness  and  so  pass  on  their  way.  But  those  human 
beings  who  have  suffered  from  it  do  in  very  truth  feel  as  though 
they  had  been  caught  up  into  another  world,  a  world  of  slavery, 
moral  galley-driving  with  a  master  high  above  them,  driving  them 
with  a  lash  that  their  chained  limbs  may  not  resist.  Such  men, 
if  they  try  to  explain  that  torment,  can  often  point  to  the  very 
day  and  even  hour  of  their  sudden  slavery;  at  such  a  tick  of  the 
clock  the  clouds  gather,  the  very  houses  and  street  are  weighted 
with  a  cold  malignity,  thoughts,  desires,  impulses  are  all  checked, 
perverted,  driven  and  counter-driven  by  a  mysterious  force.  Let 
no  man  who  has  not  known  such  hours  and  the  terror  of  such  a 
dominion  utter  judgment  upon  his  neighbour. 

To  Martin  the  threat  of  this  conflict  with  his  father  over  Maggie 
was  the  one  crisis  that  he  had  wished  to  avoid.  But  his  character, 
which  was  naturally  easy  and  friendly  and  unsuspicious,  had  con- 
fused him.  Those  three  weeks  with  Maggie  had  been  so  happy,  so 
free  from  all  morbidity  and  complication,  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  world  outside.  For  a  moment  when  Maggie  had  told  him  that 
she  had  given  her  note  to  Caroline  he  had  been  afraid,  but  he  had 
been  lulled  as  the  days  passed  and  nothing  interfered  with  their 
security.  Now  he  was  suddenly  plunged  into  the  middle  of  a  con- 
fusion that  was  all  the  more  complicated  because  he  could  not  tell 
what  his  mother  and  his  sister  were  thinking.  He  knew  that  Amy 
had  disliked  him  ever  since  his  return,  and  that  that  dislike  had 
been  changed  into  something  fiercer  since  his  declared  opposition 
to  Thurston.  His  mother  he  simply  did  not  understand  at  all. 
She  spoke  to  him  still  with  the  same  affection  and  tenderness,  but 
behind  the  words  he  felt  a  hard  purpose  and  a  mysterious  aloof- 
ness. 

She  was  not  like  his  mother  at  all;  it  was  as  though  some  spy 
had  been  introduced  into  the  house  in  his  mother's  clothing. 

But  for  them  he  did  not  care ;  it  was  his  father  of  whom  he  must 


236  THE  CAPTIVES 

think.  Here,  too,  there  was  a  mystery  from  which  he  was  delib- 
erately kept.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  they  were  all  expecting 
some  crisis;  as  the  days  advanced  he  could  feel  that  the  excite- 
ment increased.  He  knew  that  his  father  had  declared  that  he 
had  visions  and  that  there  was  to  be  a  revelation  very  shortly;  but 
of  these  visions  and  this  revelation  he  heard  only  indirectly  from 
others.  His  father  said  nothing  to  him  of  these  things,  and  at 
the  ordinary  Chapel  services  on  Sunday  there  was  no  allusion  to 
them.  He  knew  that  the  Inside  Saints  had  a  society  and  rules  of 
their  own  inside  the  larger  body,  and  from  that  inner  society  he 
was  quite  definitely  excluded.  Of  that  exclusion  he  would  have 
been  only  too  glad  had  it  not  been  for  his  father,  but  now  when 
he  saw  him  growing  from  day  to  day  more  haggard  and  worn,  more 
aloof  from  all  human  society,  when  he  saw  him  wrapped  further 
and  further  into  some  strange  and  as  it  seemed  to  him  insane  ab- 
sorption, he  was  determined  to  fight  his  way  into  the  heart  of  it. 
His  growing  intimacy  with  Maggie  had  relieved  him,  for  a  mo- 
ment, of  the  intensity  of  this  other  anxiety.  Now  suddenly  he 
was  flung  back  into  the  very  thick  of  it.  His  earlier  plan  of  forc- 
ing his  father  out  of  all  this  network  of  chicanery  and  charla- 
tanism now  returned.  He  felt  that  if  he  could  only  seize  his 
father  and  forcibly  abduct  him  and  take  him  away  from  Amy  and 
Thurston  and  the  rest,  and  all  the  associations  of  the  Chapel, 
he  might  cure  him  and  lead  him  back  to  health  and  happiness 
again. 

And  yet  he  did  not  know.  He  had  not  himself  escaped  from  it 
all  by  leaving  it,  and  then  that  undermining  bewildering  suspicion 
that  perhaps  after  all  there  was  something  in  all  of  this,  that  it 
was  not  only  charlatanism,  confused  and  disconcerted  him.  He 
was  like  a  man  who  hears  sounds  and  faint  cries  behind  a  thick 
wall,  and  there  are  no  doors  and  windows,  and  the  bricks  are  too 
stout  to  be  torn  apart. 

He  had  been  behind  that  wall  all  his  life.   .    .    . 

Amy's  allusion  to  Maggie  in  the  morning  had  been  very  slight, 
but  had  shown  quite  clearly  that  she  had  heard  all,  and  probably 
more,  than  the  truth.  When  he  returned  that  morning  he  found 
his  mother  alone,  knitting  a  pink  woollen  comforter,  her  gold 
spectacles  on  the  end  of  her  nose,  her  fresh  lace  cap  crisp  and 
dainty  on  her  white  hair — the  very  picture  of  the  dearest  old  lady 
in  the  world. 

"  Mother,"  he  began  at  once,  "  what  did  Amy  mean  this  morning 
about  myself  and  Maggie  Cardinal  ? " 

"  Maggie  who,  dear  ? "  his  mother  asked. 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  237 

"Maggie  Cardinal — the  Cardinal  niece,  you  know,"  he  said 
impatiently. 

"  Did  she  say  anything  ?    I  don't  remember." 

"  Yes,  mother.  You  remember  perfectly  well.  She  said  that 
they  were  all  talking  about  me  and  Maggie." 

"  Did  she  ?  "  The  old  lady  slowly  counted  her  stitches.  "  Well, 
dear,  I  shouldn't  worry  about  what  they  all  say — whoever  'they' 
may  be." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  that,"  he  answered  contemptuously, 
"although  all  the  same  I'm  not  going  to  have  Amy  running  that 
girl  down.  She's  been  against  her  from  the  first.  What  I  want 
to  know  is  has  Amy  been  to  father  with  this  ?  Because  if  she  has 
I'm  going  to  stop  it.  I'm  not  going  to  have  her  bothering  father 
with  bits  of  gossip  that  she's  picked  up  by  listening  behind  other 
peoples'  key-holes." 

Amy,  meanwhile,  had  come  in  and  heard  this  last  sentence. 

"  Thank  you,  Martin,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  turned  to  her  with  fury.  "What  did  you  mean  at  break- 
fast," he  asked,  "by  what  you  said  about  myself  and  Maggie 
Cardinal?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  contempt  but  no  very  active  hostility. 

"  I  was  simply  telling  you  something  that  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know,"  she  said.  "  It  is  what  everybody  is  saying — that  you 
and  she  have  been  meeting  every  day  for  weeks,  sitting  in  the 
Park  after  dark  together,  going  to  the  theatre.  People  draw  their 
own  conclusions,  I  suppose." 

"How  much  have  you  told  father  of  this?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know  at  all  what  father  has  heard,"  she  answered. 

"  You've  been  that  girl's  enemy  since  the  first  moment  that  she 
came  here,"  he  continued,  growing  angrier  and  angrier  at  her 
quiet  indifference.    "  Now  you're  trying  to  damage  her  character." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  answered,  "  I  told  you  because  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know  what  people  were  saying.  The  girl  doesn't 
matter  to  me  one  way  or  another — but  I'm  sorry  for  her  if  she 
thinks  she  cares  for  you.    That  won't  bring  her  much  happiness." 

Then  suddenly  her  impassivity  had  a  strange  effect  upon  him. 
He  could  not  answer  her.  He  left  them  both  and  went  up  to  his 
room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door  of  his  bedroom  he  knew  that 
his  bad  time  was  come  upon  him.  It  was  a  physical  as  well  as 
a  spiritual  dominion.  The  room  visibly  darkened  before  his  eyes, 
his  brain  worked  as  it  would  in  dreams  suggesting  its  own  thoughts 
and  wishes  and  intentions.    A  dark  shadow  hung  over  him,  hands 


238  THE  CAPTIVES 

were  placed  upon  his  eyes,  only  one  thought  came  before  him  again 
and  again  and  again.  "  You  know,  you  have  long  known,  that  you 
are  doomed  to  make  miserable  everything  that  you  touch,  to  ruin 
every  one  with  whom  you  come  in  contact.  That  is  your  fate,  and 
you  can  no  more  escape  from  it  than  you  can  escape  from  your 
body!" 

How  many  hours  of  this  kind  he  had  known  in  Spain,  in  France, 
in  South  America.  Often  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had 
thought  that  he  was  at  last  settling  down  to  some  decent  steady 
plan  of  life  he  would  be  jerked  from  his  purpose,  some  delay  or 
failure  would  frustrate  him,  and  there  would  follow  the  voice  in 
his  ear  and  the  hands  on  his  eyes. 

It  was  indeed  as  though  he  had  been  pledged  to  something  in 
his  early  life,  and  because  he  had  broken  from  that  pledge  had 
been  pursued  ever  since.  .    .    . 

He  stripped  to  the  waist  and  bathed  in  cold  water;  even  then 
it  seemed  to  him  that  his  flesh  was  heavy  and  dull  and  yellow, 
that  he  was  growing  obese  and  out  of  all  condition.  He  put  on  a 
clean  shirt  and  collar,  sat  down  on  his  bed  and  tried  to  think  the 
thing  out.  To  whomsoever  he  had  done  harm  in  the  past  he  would 
now  spare  Maggie  and  his  father.  He  was  surprised  at  the  rush 
of  tenderness  that  came  over  him  at  the  thought  of  Maggie;  he 
sat  there  for  some  time  thinking  over  every  incident  of  the  last 
three  weeks;  that,  at  least,  had  been  a  good  decent  time,  and  no 
one  could  ever  take  it  away  from  them  again.  He  looked  at  her 
picture  in  the  locket  and  realised,  as  he  looked  at  it,  a  link  with 
her  that  he  had  never  felt  with  any  woman  before.  "All  the 
same,"  he  thought,  "  I  should  go  away.  She'd  mind  it  at  first,  but 
not  half  as  much  as  she'd  mind  me  later  on  when  she  saw  what 
kind  of  a  chap  I  really  was.  She'd  be  unhappy  for  a  bit,  but  she'd 
soon  meet  some  one  else.  She's  never  seen  a  man  yet  except  me. 
She'd  soon  forget  me.    She's  such  a  kid." 

Nevertheless  when  he  thought  of  beginning  that  old  wandering 
life  again  he  shrank  back.  He  had  hated  it — Oh!  how  he'd  hated 
it!  And  he  didn't  want  to  leave  Maggie.  He  was  in  reality  be- 
ginning to  believe  that  with  her  he  might  pull  himself  right  out 
of  this  morass  of  weakness  and  indecision  in  which  he  had  been 
wallowing  for  years.  And  yet  what  sort  of  a  life  could  he  offer 
her?  He  did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  now  be  able  to  find 
this  other  woman  whom  he  had  married,  and  until  he  had  found 
her  and  divorced  her  Maggie's  position  would  be  impossible.  She, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  world,  could  disregard  it,  but  he  knew, 
knew  that  daily,  hourly  recurrence  of  slights  and  insults  and  dis- 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  239 

appointments,  knew  what  that  life  could  make  after  a  time  of 
women  in  such  a  position ;  even  though  she  did  not  mind  he  would 
mind  for  her  and  would  reproach  himself  continually. 

No,  it  was  impossible.  He  must  go  away  secretly,  without  telling 
her.  .  .  .  Then,  at  that,  he  was  pulled  up  again  by  the  thought 
of  his  father.  He  could  not  leave  him  until  this  crisis,  whatever 
it  might  be,  was  over.  A  very  little  thing  now  might  kill  him, 
and  at  the  thought  of  that  possibility  he  jumped  up  from  his  bed 
and  swore  that  that  catastrophe  at  least  must  be  prevented.  His 
father  must  live  and  be  happy  and  strong  again,  and  he,  Martin, 
must  see  to  it. 

That  was  his  charge  and  his  sacred  duty  above  all  else. 

Strong  in  this  thought  he  went  down  to  his  father's  room.  He 
knocked  on  the  door.  There  was  no  answer,  and  he  went  in. 
The  room  was  in  a  mess  of  untidiness.  His  father  was  walking 
up  and  down,  staring  in  front  of  him,  talking  to  himself. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door  he  turned,  saw  Martin  and  smiled,  the 
old  trusting  smile  of  a  child,  that  had  been,  during  his  time 
abroad,  Martin's  clearest  memory  of  him. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you  ?    Come  in." 

Martin  came  forward  and  his  father  put  his  arm  round  his  neck 
as  though  for  support. 

"I'm  tired — horribly  tired."  Martin  took  him  to  the  shabby 
broken  arm-chair  and  made  him  sit  down.  Himself  sat  in  his  old 
place  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  his  hand  against  his  father's  neck. 

"  Father,  come  away — just  for  a  week — with  me.  We'll  go  right 
off  into  the  country  to  Glebeshire  or  somewhere,  quite  alone.  We 
won't  see  a  soul.  We'll  just  walk  and  eat  and  sleep.  And  then 
you'll  come  back  to  your  work  here  another  man." 

"  No,  Martin.    I  can't  yet.    Not  just  now." 

"Why  not,  father?" 

"  I  have  work,  work  that  can't  be  left." 

"  But  if  you  go  on  like  this  you'll  be  so  that  you  can't  go  on 
any  longer.  You'll  break  down.  You  know  what  the  doctor  said 
about  your  heart.    You  aren't  taking  any  care  at  all." 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  but  for  a  week  or  two  I  must 
just  go  on,  preparing  .    .    .  many  things  .    .    .  Martin." 

He  suddenly  looked  up  at  his  son,  putting  his  hand  on  his 
knee. 

"Yes,  father." 

"  You're  being  good  now,  aren't  you  ? " 

"Good,  father?" 

"Yes.  .   .   .  Not  doing  anything  you  or  I'd  be  ashamed  of.    I 


240  THE  CAPTIVES 

know  in  the  past  .  .  .  but  that's  been  forgotten,  that's  over. 
Only  now,  just  now,  it's  terribly  important  for  us  both  that  you 
should  be  good  .  .  .  like  you  used  to  be  .  .  .  when  you  were 
a  boy." 

"  Father,  what  have  people  been  saying  to  you  about  me  ? " 

"  Nothing — nothing.  Only  I  think  about  you  so  much.  I  pray 
about  you  all  the  time.  Soon,  as  you  say,  we'll  go  away  together 
.  .  .  only  now,  just  now,  I  want  you  with  me  here,  strong  by  my 
side.    I  want  your  help." 

Martin  took  his  father's  hand,  felt  how  dry  and  hot  and  feverish 
it  was. 

"  I'll  be  with  you,"  he  said.  "  I  promise  that.  Don't  you  listen 
to  what  any  one  says.  I  won't  leave  you."  He  would  like  to  have 
gone  on  and  asked  other  questions,  but  the  old  man  seemed  so 
worn  out  and  exhausted  that  he  was  afraid  of  distressing  him,  so 
he  just  sat  there,  his  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  suddenly  the  white 
head  nodded,  the  beard  sank  over  the  breast  and  huddled  up  in  the 
chair  as  though  life  itself  had  left  him;  the  old  man  slept. 

During  the  next  four  days  Martin  and  Maggie  corresponded 
through  the  fair  hands  of  Jane.  He  wrote  only  short  letters,  and 
over  them  he  struggled.  He  seemed  to  see  Maggie  through  a 
tangled  mist  of  persons  and  motives  and  intentions.  He  could  not 
get  at  the  real  Maggie  at  all,  he  could  not  even  get  at  his  real 
feelings  about  her.  He  knew  that  these  letters  were  not  enough 
for  her,  he  could  feel  behind  her  own  a  longing  for  something 
from  him  more  definite,  something  that  would  bring  her  closer  to 
him.  He  was  haunted  by  his  picture  of  her  sitting  in  that  dismal 
house,  a  prisoner,  waiting  for  him,  and  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the 
four  days,  he  felt  that  he  must,  in  some  way  or  other  see  her. 
Then  she  herself  proposed  a  way. 

" To-morrow  night  (Friday),"  she  wrote,  "the  aunts  are  going  to 
a  meeting.  They  won't  return  until  after  eight  o'clock.  During 
most  of  that  time  Martha  will  be  in  the  kitchen  cooking,  and  Jane 
(who  is  staying  late  that  night)  has  promised  to  give  me  a  signal. 
I  could  run  out  for  quarter  of  an  hour  and  meet  you  somewhere 
close  by  and  risk  getting  back.  Jane  will  be  ready  to  let  me  in. 
Of  course,  it  may  fail,  but  things  can't  be  worse  than  they  are. 
...  I  absolutely  forbid  you  to  come  if  you  think  that  this  can 
make  anything  worse  for  you  at  home.  But  I  must  see  you, 
Martin.  ...  I  feel  to-night  as  though  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer  (although  I've  only  had  five  days  of  it!),  but  I  think  that  if 
I  met  you,  really  you,  for  only  five  minutes,  I  could  bear  it  then 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  241 

for  weeks.  Let  me  know  if  you  agree  to  this,  and  if  so  where  we 
could  meet  about  7.30." 

The  mere  thought  of  seeing  her  was  wonderful.  He  would  not 
have  believed  a  month  ago  that  it  could  have  come  to  mean  so 
much  to  him. 

He  wrote  back: 

"  Yes.    At  the  corner  of  Dundas  Street,  by  the  Pillar  Box,  7.30." 

He  knew  that  she  had  been  to  that  dark  little  street  with  her 
aunts  to  see  Miss  Pyncheon. 

The  night,  when  it  came,  was  misty,  and  when  he  reached  the 
place  she  was  at  once  in  his  arms.  She  had  been  there  more  than 
five  minutes,  she  had  thought  that  he  was  not  coming.  |  Martha 
had  nearly  caught  her.  .   .    . 

He  kissed  her  hair  and  her  eyes  and  her  mouth,  holding  her  to 
him,  forgetting  everything  but  her.  She  stayed,  quiet,  clinging  to 
him  as  though  she  would  never  let  him  go,  then  she  drew  away. 
"  Now  we  must  walk  about  or  some  one  will  see  us,"  she  said. 
"We've  only  got  five  minutes.  Martin,  what  I  want  to  know  is, 
are  you  happy  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

They  walked  like  ghosts,  in  the  misty  street. 

"  Well,  then  I  am,"  she  said.  "  Only  your  letters  didn't  sound 
very  happy." 

"  Can  you  hold  on  till  after  the  New  Year  ? "  They  were  walking 
hand  in  hand,  her  fingers  curled  in  his  palm. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.    "  If  you're  happy." 

"  There  are  troubles  of  course,"  he  said.  "  But  I  don't  care  for 
Amy  and  the  rest.  It's  only  father  that  matters.  I  can't  discover 
how  much  he  knows.  If  I  knew  that  I'd  be  much  happier.  We'll 
be  all  right,  Maggie,  if  nothing  happens  to  him." 

With  a  little  frightened  catch  in  her  throat  she  asked  him: 

"  How  do  you  mean,  if  anything  happens  to  him  ? " 

"If  anything  happened  to  him "  she  could  feel  his  hand 

stiffen  round  hers ;  "  through  me — then — why  then — I'd  leave  you 
— everything — I'd  have  to." 

"Leave  me!  .   .   .  Oh  Martin!    No!" 

"  I'd  go.  I'd  go — I  don't  know  where  to.  I  don't  know  what  I'd 
do.  I'd  know  then  that  I  must  leave  every  one  alone,  always,  for 
ever — especially  you." 

"  No.    You'd  need  me  more  than  ever." 

"You  don't  understand,  Maggie.  I'd  be  impossible  after  that. 
If  father  suffered  through  me  that  would  be  the  end  of  it — the 
end  of  everything." 


242  THE  CAPTIVES 

"Martin,  listen."  She  caught  his  arm,  looking  up,  trying  to 
see  his  face.  "  If  anything  like  that  did  happen  that  would  be 
where  you'd  want  me.  Don't  you  see  that  you  couldn't  harm  me 
except  by  leaving  me?" 

"  You  can  reason  it  as  you  like,  Maggie,  but  I  know  myself.  I 
know  the  impulse  would  be  too  strong — to  go  away  and  hide  my- 
self from  everybody.  I've  felt  it  before — when  I've  done  some- 
thing especially  bad.  It's  something  in  me  that  I've  known  all 
my  life."  Then  he  turned  to  her:  "But  it's  all  right.  Nothing 
shall  happen  to  the  old  man.  I'll  see  that  it  doesn't.  We've  only 
got  to  wait  a  fortnight,  then  I'll  get  him  away  for  a  holiday. 
And  once  he's  better  I  can  leave  him.  It  will  be  all  right.  It 
shall." 

Then  he  bent  down  to  her.  "You  know,  Maggie,  I  love  you 
more,  far  more  than  I  ever  thought.  Even  if  I  went  away  you'd 
be  the  only  one  I'd  love.  I  never  dreamt  that  I'd  care  for  any  one 
so  much." 

He  felt  her  tremble  under  his  hand  when  he  said  that. 

She  sighed.  "  Now  I  can  go  back,"  she  said.  "  I'll  say  that  over 
to  myself  again  and  again." 

They  stayed  a  little  longer,  he  put  his  arms  round  her  again 
and  held  her  so  close  to  him  that  she  could  feel  his  heart  throb- 
bing.   Then  when  they  had  kissed  once  more  she  went  away. 

She  returned  safely.  Jane  opened  the  door  for  her,  mysteriously, 
as  though  she  enjoyed  her  share  in  the  conspiracy.  Maggie  sped 
upstairs,  and  now  with  Martin's  words  in  her  ears,  had  enough  to 
stiffen  her  back  for  the  battle. 

The  next  move  in  the  affair  was  on  the  following  afternoon  when 
Maggie,  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  beheld  Caroline  Smith  in  the 
doorway. 

"  She's  got  cheek  enough  for  anything,"  was  Maggie's  first 
thought,  but  she  was  not  aware  of  the  true  magnificence  of  that 
young  woman's  audacity  until  she  found  her  hand  seized  and  her 
cheek  kissed. 

Caroline,  in  fact,  had  greeted  her  with  precisely  her  old  spon- 
taneous enthusiasm. 

"Maggie,  darling,  where  have  you  been  all  these  days — but 
weeks  it  is  indeed!  You  might  at  least  have  sent  me  just  a  word. 
Life  simply  hasn't  been  the  same  without  you !  You  pet !  .  .  .  and 
you  look  tired!  Yes,  you  do.  You've  been  overworking  or  some- 
thing, all  because  you  haven't  had  me  to  look  after  you !  " 

Maggie  gravely  withdrew,  and  standing  away  from  the  shining 
elegance  of  her  friend  said: 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  243 

"  Caroline — I  want  to  know  something  before  we  go  any  further. 
What  I  want  to  know  is — why  did  you  read  that  note  that  I  asked 
you  to  give  to  Martin  Warlock  ? " 

Caroline  stared  in  amazement.  "  My  dear,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Are  you  ill  or  something?  Oh,  you  are.  I  can  see  you  are!  You 
poor  darling !    Read  your  note  ?    What  note,  dear  ?  " 

u  The  note  I  gave  you  a  month  ago — one  evening  when  you  were 
here." 

"A  note!  A  month  ago.  My  dear!  As  though  I  could  ever 
remember  what  I  did  a  month  ago!  Why,  it's  always  all  I  can 
manage  to  remember  what  I  did  yesterday.  Did  you  give  me  a 
note,  dear  ? " 

Maggie  began  to  be  angry.  "  Of  course  I  did.  You  remember 
perfectly  well.  I  gave  it  to  you  for  Martin  Warlock.  You  let 
him  have  it,  but  meanwhile  you  read  it,  and  not  only  that  but  told 
everybody  else  about  it." 

Caroline's  expression  changed.  She  was  suddenly  sulky.  Her 
face  was  like  that  of  a  spoilt  child. 

"  Well,  Maggie  Cardinal,  if  you  call  that  being  a  friend !  To 
say  that  I  would  ever  do  such  a  thing! " 

"  You  know  you  did ! "  said  Maggie  quietly. 

"Read  your  letters?  As  though  I'd  want  to!  Why  should  I? 
As  though  I  hadn't  something  more  interesting  to  do!  No  thank 
you!  Of  course  you  have  been  getting  yourself  into  a  mess. 
Every  one  knows  that.  That's  why  I  came  here  to-day — to  show 
you  that  I  was  a  real  friend  and  didn't  mind  what  people  said 
about  you !  When  they  were  all  talking  about  you  last  night,  and 
saying  the  most  dreadful  things,  I  defended  you  and  said  it  wasn't 
really  your  fault,  you  couldn't  have  told  what  a  rotten  sort  of  a 
man  Martin  Warlock  was " 

"  That's  enough,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  don't  want  your  defence, 
thank  you.  You're  mean  and  deceitful  and  untrue.  You  never 
have  been  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  don't  want  ever  to  see  you 
again !  " 

Caroline  Smith  was  horrified.  "  Well,  upon  my  word.  Isn't 
that  gratitude?  Here  am  I,  the  only  person  in  this  whole  place 
would  take  any  trouble  with  you !  When  the  others  all  said  that 
you  were  plain  and  stupid  and  hadn't  anything  to  say  for  yourself 
I  stuck  to  you.  I  did  all  I  could,  wasting  all  my  time  going  ta 
the  dressmaker  with  you  and  trying  to  make  you  look  like  some- 
thing human,  and  this  is  the  way  you  repay  me!  Well,  there's  a 
lesson  for  me!  Many^s  the  time  mother's  said  to  me,  'Carry, 
you'll  just  ruin  yourself  with  that  kind  heart  of  yours,  laying  your- 


244  THE  CAPTIVES 

self  out  for  others  when  you  ought  to  be  seeing  after  yourself. 
You've  got  too  big  a  heart  for  this  world.'  Doesn't  it  just  show 
one?  And  to  end  it  all  with  accusing  me  of  reading  your  letters! 
If  you  choose  to  sit  in  the  park  after  dark  with  a  man  who  every- 
body knows " 

"  Either  you're  going  to  leave  this  room  or  I  am,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Thank  you !  "  said  Caroline,  tossing  her  head.  "  I  haven't  the 
slightest  desire  to  stay,  I  assure  you !  Only  you'll  be  sorry  for  this, 
Maggie  Cardinal,  you  will  indeed ! " 

With  a  swish  of  the  skirts  and  a  violent  banging  of  the  door  she 
was  gone. 

"  The  only  friend  I  had,"  thought  Maggie. 

The  next  development  was  an  announcement  from  Aunt  Anne 
that  she  would  like  Maggie  to  accompany  her  to  a  meeting  at  Miss 
Avies'.  Aunt  Anne  did  not  explain  what  kind  of  a  meeting  it 
would  be,  and  Maggie  asked  no  questions.  She  simply  replied  that 
she  would  go.  She  had  indeed  by  this  time  a  very  considerable 
curiosity  of  her  own  as  to  what  every  one  thought  was  going  to 
happen  in  ten  days'  time.  Perhaps  this  meeting  would  enlighten 
her.    It  did. 

On  arriving  at  Miss  Avies'  gaunt  and  menacing  apartment  she 
found  herself  in  the  very  stronghold  of  the  Inside  Saints.  It  was 
a  strange  affair,  and  Maggie  was  never  to  see  anything  quite  like 
it  again.  In  the  first  place,  Miss  Avies'  room  was  not  exactly  the 
place  in  which  you  would  have  expected  to  discover  a  meeting  of 
this  kind. 

She  lived  over  a  house-agent's  in  John  Street,  Adelphi.  Her 
sitting-room  was  low-ceilinged  with  little  diamond-paned  windows. 
The  place  was  let  furnished,  and  the  green  and  red  vases  on 
the  mantelpiece,  the  brass  clock  and  the  bright  yellow  wallpaper 
were  properties  of  the  landlord.  To  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
Miss  Avies,  although  she  lived  there  for  a  number  of  years,  had 
contributed  nothing. 

It  had  all  the  desolate  forlornness  of  a  habitation  in  which  no 
human  being  has  dwelt  for  a  very  long  time;  there  was  dust  on 
the  mantelpiece,  a  melancholy  sputtering  of  coal  choked  with 
cinders  and  gasping  for  breath  in  the  fireplace,  stuffy  hot  clammi- 
ness beating  about  the  unopened  windows.  Along  the  breadth  of 
the  faded  brown  carpet  some  fifty  cane-bottomed  chairs  were 
pressed  tightly  in  rows  together,  and  in  front  of  the  window,  fac- 
ing the  chairs,  was  a  little  wooden  table  with  a  chair  beside  it,  on 
the  table  a  glass  of  water  and  a  Bible. 

When  Maggie  and  her  aunts  entered  the  chairs  were  almost  all 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  245 

occupied  and  they  were  forced  to  sit  at  the  end  of  the  last  row  but 
one.  The  meeting  had  apparently  not  yet  begun,  and  many  heads 
were  turned  towards  them  as  they  took  their  places.  Maggie 
fancied  that  the  glances  directed  at  herself  were  angry  and  severe, 
but  that  was  very  possibly  her  imagination.  She  soon  recognised 
people  known  to  her — Miss  Pyncheon,  calm  and  placid;  Mrs. 
Smith,  Caroline's  mother,  very  stout,  hot,  and  self-important; 
Amy  Warlock,  proud  and  severe;  and  Miss  Avies  herself  standing, 
like  a  general  surveying  his  forces,  behind  the  table. 

The  room  was  draughty  and  close  and  had  a  confused  smell  of 
oil-cloth  and  geraniums,  and  Maggie  knew  that  soon  she  would 
have  a  headache.  She  fancied  that  already  the  atmosphere  was 
influencing  the  meeting.  From  where  she  sat  she  could  see  a 
succession  of  side  faces,  and  it  was  strange  what  a  hungry,  appeal- 
ing look  these  pale  cheeks  and  staring  eyes  had.  Hungry!  Yes, 
that's  what  they  all  were.  She  thought,  fantastically,  for  a  mo- 
ment, of  poor  Mr.  Magnus's  Treasure  Hunters,  and  she  seemed  to 
see  the  whole  of  this  company  in  a  raft  drifting  in  mid-ocean,  not 
a  sail  in  sight  and  the  last  ship's  biscuit  gone. 

They  were  not,  taken  altogether,  a  very  fine  collection,  old  maids 
and  young  girls,  many  of  them  apparently  of  the  servant  class, 
one  or  two  sitting  with  open  mouths  and  a  vacancy  of  expression 
that  seemed  to  demand  a  conjurer  with  a  rabbit  and  a  hat.  Some 
faces  were  of  the  true  fanatic  cast,  lit  with  the  glow  of  an  ex- 
pectancy and  a  hope  that  no  rational  experience  had  ever  actually 
justified.  One  girl,  whom  Maggie  had  seen  with  Aunt  Anne  on 
some  occasion,  had  especially  this  prophetic  anticipation  in  the 
whole  pose  of  her  body  as  she  bent  forward  a  little,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  on  her  hands,  gazing  with  wide  burning  eyes 
at  Miss  Avies.  This  girl,  whom  Maggie  was  never  to  see  again 
hung  as  a  picture  in  the  rooms  of  her  mind  for  the  rest  of  her 
life — the  youth,  the  desperate  anxiety  as  of  one  who  throws  her 
last  piece  upon  the  gaming-table,  the  poverty  of  the  shabby  black 
dress,  the  real  physical  austerity  and  asceticism  of  the  white  cheeks 
and  the  thin  arms  and  pale  hands — this  figure  remained  a  symbol 
for  Maggie.  She  used  to  wonder  in  after  years,  when  fortune 
had  carried  her  far  enough  away  from  all  this  world,  what  had 
happened  to  that  girl.    But  she  was  never  to  know. 

There  were  faces,  too,  like  Miss  Pyncheon's,  calm,  contented, 
confident,  old  women  who  had  found  in  their  religion  the  panacea 
of  all  their  troubles.  There  were  faces  like  Mrs.  Smith's,  coarse 
and  vulgar,  out  for  any  sensation  that  might  come  along,  and 
ready  instantly  to  express  their  contempt  if  the  particular  "  trick  " 


246  THE  CAPTIVES 

that  they  were  expecting  failed  to  come  off;  other  faces,  again, 
like  Amy  Warlock's,  grimly  set  upon  secret  thoughts  and  purposes 
of  their  own,  faces  trained  to  withstand  any  sudden  attack  on 
the  emotions,  but  eager,  too,  like  the  rest  for  some  revelation  that 
was  to  answer  all  questions  and  satisfy  all  expectations. 

Maggie  wondered,  as  she  looked  about  her,  how  she  could  have 
raised  in  her  own  imagination,  around  the  Chapel  and  its  affairs, 
so  formidable  an  atmosphere  of  terror  and  tyrannic  discipline. 
Here  gathered  together  were  a  few  women,  tired,  pale,  many  of 
them  uneducated,  awaiting  like  children  the  opening  of  a  box, 
the  springing  into  flower  of  a  dry  husk  of  a  seed,  the  raising  of  the 
curtain  on  some  wonderful  scene.  Maggie,  as  she  looked  at  them, 
knew  that  they  must  be  disappointed,  and  her  heart  ached  for 
them  all,  yes,  even  for  Amy  Warlock,  her  declared  enemy.  She 
lost,  as  she  sat  there,  for  the  moment  all  sense  of  her  own  personal 
history.  She  only  saw  them  all  tired  and  hungry  and  expectant; 
perhaps,  after  all,  there  was  something  behind  it  all — something 
for  which  they  had  a  right  to  be  searching;  even  of  that  she  had 
not  sure  knowledge — but  the  pathos  and  also  the  bravery  of  their 
search  touched  and  moved  her.  She  was  beginning  to  understand 
something  of  the  beauty  that  hovered  like  a  bird  always  just  out 
of  sight  about  the  ugly  walls  of  the  Chapel. 

"Whatever  they  want,  poor  dears,"  she  thought,  "I  do  hope 
they  get  it." 

Miss  Avies  opened  the  meeting  with  an  extempore  prayer:  then 
they  all  stood  up  and  sang  a  hymn,  and  their  quavering  voices 
were  thin  and  sharp  and  strained  in  the  stuffy  close-ceilinged  room. 
The  hymn,  like  all  the  other  Chapel  hymns  that  Maggie  had  heard, 
had  to  do  with  "  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb,"  "  the  sacrifice  of  Blood," 
44  the  Blood  that  heals."    There  was  also  a  refrain : 

And,  when  Thou  comest,  Lord,  we  pray 
That  Thou  wilt  spare  Thy  sword, 
Or  on  that  grim  and  ghastly  day 
Who  will  escape  the  Lord? 
Who  will  escape  the  Lord? 

There  were  many  verses  to  this  hymn,  and  it  had  a  long  and 
lugubrious  tune,  so  that  Maggie  thought  that  it  would  never  end, 
but  as  it  proceeded  the  words  worked  their  effect  on  the  congre- 
gation, and  at  the  last  there  was  much  emotion  and  several  women 
were  crying. 

Then  they  all  sat  down  again  and  the  meeting  developed  a  very 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  247 

business-like  side.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  discussion  as  to 
dates,  places,  appointments,  and  Maggie  was  amused  to  discover 
that  in  this  part  of  the  proceedings  Mrs.  Smith  had  a  great  deal 
to  say,  and  took  a  very  leading  place. 

The  gathering  became  like  any  other  assemblage  of  ladies  for 
some  charitable  or  social  purpose,  and  there  were  the  usual  dis- 
putes and  signs  of  temper  and  wounded  pride;  in  all  those  mat- 
ters Miss  Avies  was  a  most  admirable  and  unflinching  chairman. 

Then  at  last  the  real  moment  came.  Miss  Avies  got  up  to  speak. 
She  stood  there,  scornful,  superior,  and  yet  with  some  almost 
cynical  appeal  in  her  eyes  as  though  she  said  to  them :  "  You  poor 
fools!  No  one  knows  better  than  I  the  folly  of  your  being  here, 
no  one  knows  better  than  I  how  far  you  will,  all  of  you,  be  from 
realising  any  of  your  dreams.  Tricked,  the  lot  of  you! — and  yet 
— and  yet — go  on  believing,  expecting,  hoping.  Pray,  pray  that  I 
may  be  wrong  and  you  may  be  right." 

What  she  actually  said  was  as  follows :  "  This  will  be  our  last 
meeting  before  the  end  of  the  year.  What  will  come  to  all  of  us 
before  we  all  meet  again  no  one  can  say,  but  this  we  all  know, 
that  we  have,  most  of  us,  been  living  now  for  many  years  in  ex- 
pectation. We  have  been  taught,  by  the  goodness  of  God,  to  be- 
lieve that  we  must  be  ready  at  any  moment  to  obey  His  call,  and 
that  call  may  come,  in  the  middle  of  our  work,  of  our  prayers, 
of  our  love  for  others,  of  our  pursuit  of  our  own  ambitions,  and 
that  whenever  it  does  come  we  must  be  ready  to  obey  it.  We 
have  been  told  by  our  great  and  good  Master,  who  has  been  set 
over  us  for  our  guidance  by  God  Himself,  that  that  call  may  now 
be  very  near.  Whatever  form  it  may  take  we  must  accept  it,  give 
up  all  we  have  and  follow  Him.  That  is  understood  by  all  of  us. 
I  will  not  say  more  now.  This  is  not  the  time  for  any  more  direc- 
tions from  me.  We  must  address  ourselves,  each  one  of  us,  to 
God  Himself,  and  ask  Him  to  prepare  us  so  that  we  may  be  as  He 
would  have  us  on  the  day  of  His  coming.  I  suggest  now  before  we 
part  that  we  share  together  in  a  few  minutes  of  private  prayer." 

They  all  rose,  and  Maggie,  before  she  knelt  down,  caught  a 
sudden  glimpse  of  the  pale  girl  whom  she  had  noticed  earlier  stand- 
ing for  a  moment  as  though  she  were  about  to  make  some  des- 
perate appeal  to  them  all.  Some  words  did  indeed  seem  to  come 
from  her  lips,  but  the  scraping  of  chairs  drowned  every  other 
sound.  Nevertheless  that  figure  was  there,  the  hands  stretched  out, 
the  very  soul  struggling  through  the  eyes  for  expression,  the  body 
tense,  sacred,  eloquent,  like  the  body  of  some  young  prophetess. 
Then  all  were  on  their  knees,  and  Maggie,  too,  her  face  in  her 


248  THE  CAPTIVES 

hands,  was  praying.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  she  had  actively,  consciously,  of  her  own  volition  prayed. 
The  appeal  formed  itself  as  it  were  without  her  own  agency. 

"  God — if  there  is  a  God — give  me  Martin.  I  care  for  nothing 
else  but  that.  If  You  will  give  me  Martin  for  my  own  always, 
ever,  I  will  believe  in  You.  I  will  worship  You  and  say  prayers 
to  You,  and  do  anything  You  tell  me  if  You  give  me  Martin.  Oh 
God!  I  ought  to  have  him.  He  is  mine.  I  can  do  more  for  him 
than  any  one  else  can — I  can  make  him  happy  and  good.  I  know 
I  can.  God  give  him  to  me  and  I  will  be  your  slave.  God,  give 
me  Martin — God,  give  me  Martin." 

She  rose,  as  it  were,  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  from  great 
darkness  and  breathlessness  and  exhaustion.  For  a  moment  she 
could  not  see  the  room  nor  any  detail,  but  only  one  pale  face  after 
another,  like  a  pattern  on  a  wall,  hiding  something  from  her. 

She  stood  bewildered  beside  her  aunts,  not  hearing  the  strains 
of  the  last  hymn  nor  the  quaver  of  Aunt  Anne's  trembling  voice 
beside  her. 

"  God,  give  me  Martin,"  was  her  last  challenge  in  the  strange 
pale  silence  that  floated  around  her.  Then  suddenly,  as  though  she 
had  pushed  open  a  door  and  gone  through,  she  was  back  in  the 
world  again,  a  flood  of  sound  was  about  her  ears,  and  in  front  of 
her  the  red  face  of  Mrs.  Smith,  her  mouth  wide  open,  like  the 
mouth  of  an  eager  fish,  singing  about  il  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb  " 
with  unctuous  satisfaction.  .   .   . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PROPHET 

THE  year  1907  had  four  more  days  of  life :  it  crept  to  its  grave 
through  a  web  and  tangle  of  fog.  It  was  not  one  of  the 
regular  yellow  devils  who  come  and  eat  up  London,  first  this  part, 
and  then  that,  then  disgorge  a  little,  choking  it  all  up  only  to  snap 
at  it  and  swallow  it  down  all  bewildered  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
after.  This  was  a  cobweb  fog  spun,  as  it  might  be,  by  some 
malignant  central  spider  hidden  darkly  in  his  lair.  The  vapour- 
ing-like  filmy  threads  twisted  and  twined  their  way  all  over 
London,  and  for  four  days  and  nights  the  town  was  a  city  of 
ghosts.  Buildings  loomed  dimly  behind  their  masks  of  silver 
tissue,  streets  seemed  unsubstantial,  pavements  had  no  foundation, 
streams  of  water  appeared  to  hang  glittering  in  mid-air,  men  and 
horses  would  suddenly  plunge  into  grey  abysses  and  vanish  from 
sight,  church-bells  would  ring  peals  high  up  in  air,  and  there  would 
be,  it  seemed,  no  steeple  there  for  them  to  ring  from.  As  the  sun 
behind  the  fog  rose  and  set  so  the  mist  would  catch  gold  and  red 
and  purple  into  the  vapours,  strange  gleams  of  brass  and  silver 
as  though  behind  its  web  armies  flaunting  their  colours  were 
marching  through  the  sky;  down  on  the  very  earth  itself  horses 
staggered  and  stumbled  on  the  thin  coating  of  greasy  mud  that 
covered  everything;  men  opened  their  doors  to  look  out  on  to 
the  world,  and  instantly  into  the  passages  there  floated  such  strange 
forms  and  shadows  in  misty  shape  that  it  seemed  as  though  the 
rooms  were  suddenly  invaded  by  a  flock  of  spirits. 

Sometimes  for  half  an  hour  the  fog  lifted  and  bright  blue  sky 
gleamed  like  a  miraculous  lake  suddenly  discovered  in  the  heart 
of  the  boundless  waste,  then  vanished  again.  Suddenly,  with  a 
whisk  of  the  immortal  broom,  the  web  was  torn,  the  spider  slain, 
the  world  clear  once  more — but,  in  the  obscurity  and  dusk,  1907 
had  seen  his  chance  and  vanished. 

Warlock,  long  before  this,  had  lost  consciousness  of  external 
sights  and  sounds.  He  could  not  have  told  any  one  when  it  was 
that  the  two  worlds  had  parted  company.  For  many  many  years 
he  had  been  conscious  of  both  existences,  but  during  his  youth 
and  middle-age  they  had  seemed  to  mingle  and  go  along  together. 
He  had  believed  in  both  equallv  and  had  been  a  citizen  of  both. 

249 


250  THE  CAPTIVES 

Then  gradually,  as  time  passed,  he  had  seemed  to  have  less  and 
less  hold  upon  the  actual  physical  world.  He  saw  it  suddenly  with 
darkened  vision;  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  indeed  all  human 
beings,  except  in  so  far  as  they  were  souls  to  be  saved  for  the 
Lord,  became  less  and  less  realities.  Only  Martin  was  flesh  and 
blood,  to  be  loved  and  longed  for  and  feared  for  just  as  he  had 
always  been.  All  the  physical  properties  of  life — clothes,  food, 
household  possessions,  money — became  of  less  and  less  importance 
to  him.  Had  Amy  not  watched  over  him  he  would  have  been  many 
days  without  any  food  at  all,  and  one  day  he  come  into  the  living- 
room  at  breakfast-time  clothed  in  a  towel.  All  this  had  come  upon 
him  with  vastly  increased  power  during  the  last  months.  In 
Chapel,  and  whenever  he  had  work  to  do  in  connection  with  the 
Chapel,  he  was  clear-headed  and  practical,  but  in  things  to  do  with 
this  world  he  was  now  worse  than  a  child. 

He  was  conscious  of  this  increasing  difficulty  to  deal  with  both 
worlds.  It  was  because  one  world — the  world  of  God — was  opening 
out  before  him  so  widely  and  with  so  varied  and  thrilling  a  beauty 
that  there  was  less  and  less  time  to  be  spared  for  the  drab  realities 
of  physical  things. 

All  his  life  he  had  been  preparing,  and  then  suddenly  the  call 
had  come.  Shortly  after  Martin's  return  he  had  known  in  Chapel, 
one  evening,  that  God  was  approaching.  It  had  happened  that 
that  day,  owing  to  his  absorption  in  his  work,  he  had  eaten  noth- 
ing, and  there  had  come  to  him,  whilst  praying  to  the  congregation, 
a  sensation  of  faintness  so  strong  that  for  a  moment  he  thought 
he  would  fall  from  his  seat.  Then  it  had  passed,  to  give  way  to  a 
strange,  thrilling  sense  of  expectancy.  It  was  as  though  a  servant 
had  opened  the  door  and  had  announced:  "My  master  is  coming, 

sir "     He  had  felt,  indeed,  as  though  he  had  been  lifted  up, 

in  the  sheet  of  Paul  the  Apostle,  to  meet  his  God.  There  had  been 
the  most  wonderful  sense  of  elevation,  a  clearing  of  light,  a  gentler 
freshness  in  the  air,  a  sudden  sinking  to  remoteness  of  human 
voices  and  mundane  sounds.  From  that  moment  in  the  Chapel  life 
had  been  changed  for  him.  He  never  seemed  to  come  down  again 
from  that  mysterious  elevation.  Human  voices  sounded  far  away 
from  him;  he  could  be  urged,  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  to 
take  his  food,  and  he  frequently  did  not  recognise  members  of 
his  own  congregation  when  they  came  to  see  him.  He  waited  now, 
waited,  waited,  for  this  visitation  that  was  approaching  him.  He 
could  have  no  doubts  of  it. 

Then  one  night  he  woke  from  a  deep  sleep.  He  was  conscious 
that  his  room  was  filled  with  a  smoky  light;   in  his  heart  was 


THE  PROPHET  251 

such  an  ecstasy  that  he  would  have  thought  that  the  joy  would 
kill  him. 

Something  spoke  to  him,  telling  him  to  prepare,  that  he  had 
been  chosen,  and  that  further  signs  would  come  to  him.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  the  bed  and  remained  there  in  a  trance  until 
daylight.  He  had  heard  the  voice  of  God,  he  had  seen  His  light, 
he  had  been  chosen  as  His  servant.  Some  weeks  later  a  second 
visitation  came  to  him,  similar  to  the  first,  but  telling  him  that 
at  the  last  hour  of  the  present  year  God  would  come  in  His  own 
person  to  save  the  world,  and  that  he  must  make  this  known  to  a 
few  chosen  spirits  that  they  might  prepare.  .    .    . 

The  whole  brotherhood  then  was  at  length  justified;  they  alone, 
out  of  all  men  in  the  world,  had  believed  in  the  Second  Coming  of 
the  Lord,  and  so  God  had  chosen  them.  He  had  no  doubt  at  all 
about  his  visions  at  this  time.  They  seemed  to  him  as  real  and 
sure  as  the  daily  traffic  of  the  streets  and  the  monotonous  progress 
of  the  clock. 

Eagerly,  with  the  confident  resolution  of  a  child,  he  told  his 
news  to  the  leaders  of  the  Chapel,  Thurston,  Miss  Avies,  and  one 
or  two  others.  Then  a  special  meeting  of  the  Inside  Saints  was 
called  and,  in  the  simplest  language,  he  described  exactly  what  had 
occurred.  He  did  not  at  first  perceive  the  effect  that  his  news 
had.  Then,  dimly,  through  the  mist  of  his  prayers  and  ecstasies, 
he  realised  that  his  message  had  created  confusion.  There  was  in 
the  first  place  the  question  as  to  whether  the  whole  congregation 
should  be  told.  He  found  that  he  could  not  decide  about  this,  and 
when  he  left  the  judgment  to  Thurston,  Thurston  told  him  that, 
in  his  opinion,  "  the  less  that  they  knew  about  it  the  better."  It 
was  then  that  the  first  suspicion  came  to  him  as  to  whether  some 
of  the  Saints  "  doubted."  He  questioned  Thurston  as  to  the  effect 
of  this  message  upon  the  Saints.  Thurston  explained  to  him  that 
"many  of  them  had  been  very  troubled.  They  had  not  expected 
It  to  come  so  soon."  Thurston  explained  that  they  were,  after  all, 
only  poor  human  clay  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  to  prepare  for 
a  Second  Coming  in  general,  something  that  might  descend  upon 
the  world,  say,  in  a  hundred  years'  time,  was  very  different  from  a 
Judgment  that  might  be  expected,  definitely,  in  about  three  weeks. 
One  or  two  of  them,  in  fact,  had  left  the  Chapel.  Others  begged 
for  some  clearer  direction :  "  Give  it  them  a  bit  more  clearly, 
Master.  Tell  'em  a  few  facts  what  the  Lord  God  looked  like  and 
'ow  He  spoke  and  in  what  kind  of  way  He  was  coming.  Sup- 
posing He  wasn't  to  come  after  all.  ..." 

It  was  then  that  the  trouble  that  had  been  smouldering  for  so 


252  THE  CAPTIVES 

long  between  Thurston  and  the  Master  burst  into  flame.  For  half 
an  hour  the  Master  lost  his  temper  like  an  ordinary  human  being. 
Thurston  said  very  little  but  listened  with  a  quiet  and  sarcastic 
smile.  Then  he  went  away.  Warlock  was  left  in  a  torment  of 
doubt  and  misery.  That  night  he  was  in  his  room,  until  the  dawn, 
on  his  knees,  wrestling  with  God.  He  accused  himself  because, 
during  these  latter  months,  he  had  removed  himself  from  human 
contact  with  his  congregation.  He  had  been  so  intent  upon  God 
that  he  had  forgotten  his  flock.  Now  he  hardly  knew  how  to  ap- 
proach them.  The  thought  of  a  personal  interview  with  the  Miss 
Cardinals,  or  Miss  Pyncheon,  or  Mr.  Smith  filled  him  with  a 
strange  shy  terror.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
them,  and  he  blamed  himself  bitterly  because  he  had  been  intent 
upon  his  own  salvation  rather  than  theirs. 

Thurston's  words  sent  him  groping  back  through  the  details  of 
the  visions.  And  there  were  no  details.  For  himself  there  had  been 
enough  in  the  light,  the  ecstasy,  the  contact,  but  these  others  who 
had  not  themselves  felt  this,  nor  seen  its  glory,  demanded  more. 

He  began  then,  in  an  agony  of  distress,  to  question  himself  as 
to  whether  he  had  not  dreamt  his  visions.  He  wrestled  with  God, 
beseeching  Him  to  come  again  and  give  him  a  clearer  message. 
Night  after  night  passed  and  he  waited  for  some  further  vision, 
but  nothing  was  granted  him.  Then  he  thought  that  perhaps  he 
himself  was  now  cursed  for  leaving  God.  God  had  come  to  him 
and  revealed  Himself  to  him  in  unmistakable  signs,  and  yet  he 
was  doubting  Him  and  demanding  further  help. 

As  the  weeks  passed  he  perceived  more  and  more  clearly  that 
there  was  every  kind  of  division  and  trouble  in  the  Chapel.  Many 
members  left  and  wrote  to  him  telling  him  why  they  had  done  so. 
In  his  own  household  he  felt  that  Amy  no  longer  gave  him  any 
confidence.  She  attended  to  him  more  carefully  than  before, 
watched  over  him  as  though  he  were  a  baby,  but  made  no  allusion 
to  the  services  or  the  Chapel  or  any  meeting.  He  seemed,  as  the 
weeks  passed,  to  be  lonelier  and  lonelier,  and  he  looked  upon  this 
as  punishment  for  his  own  earlier  selfishness.  He  was  pulled  then 
two  ways.  On  the  one  hand  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  only 
hear  God's  full  message  if  he  withdrew  further  and  further  from 
the  world,  on  the  other  he  felt  that  he  was  letting  his  followers 
slip  away  from  him  now  at  the  very  moment  when  he  should  be 
closest  to  them,  advising,  helping,  encouraging.  This  divided  im- 
pulse was  a  torture,  and  as  the  weeks  went  on  he  ate  less  and 
less  and  slept  scarcely  at  all.  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  past 
in  delicate  health  owing  to  the  weakness  of  his  heart,  and  now 


THE  PROPHET  253 

he  began  to  look  strange  indeed,  with  his  bright  gaunt  face  with 
its  prominent  cheek-bones,  his  eyes  straining  to  see  beyond  his 
actual  vision,  his  flowing  white  beard.  His  doctor,  a  cheerful, 
commonplace  little  man,  a  member  of  the  Chapel,  although  not  a 
Saint,  tried  to  do  his  best  with  him,  but  his  visits  only  led  to 
scenes  of  irritation,  and  Warlock  obeyed  none  of  his  commands. 
After  a  visit  on  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve  he  took  Amy  aside : 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "unless  you  keep  a  stricter  eye  on  your 
father  than  you  have  been  doing  he'll  be  leaving  you  altogether." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  that  odd  dark  impassivity  that 
seemed  to  remove  her  so  deliberately  from  her  fellow-beings. 

"It's  very  well  to  talk  like  that,"  she  said.  "But  how  is  any 
one  to  have  any  control  over  him?  He  listens  to  nothing  that  we 
say,  and  if  we  insist  he's  in  a  frenzy  of  irritation." 

"Can  your  mother  do  nothing? "  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Mother  ?  "  Amy  smiled.    "  No,  mother  can  do  nothing." 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  any  sudden  shock  will  kill  him — I 
warn  you." 

When  the  fog  came  down  upon  the  city  Warlock  was  already  in 
too  thick  a  fog  of  his  own  to  perceive  it. 

He  was  sure  now  of  nothing.  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  spirits 
of  the  other  world  now  were  taunting  him,  but  he  felt  that  this 
was  the  work  of  the  Devil,  who  wished  to  destroy  his  faith  before 
the  Great  Day  arrived.  He  thought  now  that  the  Devil  was  closely 
pursuing  him,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  first  his  taunting  whisper  and 
then  the  voice  of  God  encouraging  him :  "  Well  done,  my  good  and 
faithful  servant." 

He  had  lost  now  almost  all  consciousness  of  what  he  really 
expected  to  happen  when  the  Day  arrived,  but  he  was  dimly  aware 
that  if  nothing  happened  at  all  his  whole  influence  with  his 
people  would  be  gone.  Nevertheless  this  did  not  trouble  him  very 
greatly;  the  congregation  of  the  Chapel  seemed  now  dimly  remote. 
The  only  human  being  who  was  not  remote  was  Martin;  his  love 
for  his  son  had  not  been  touched  by  his  other  struggles,  it  had 
been  even  intensified.  But  the  love  had  grown  a  terror,  ever  in- 
creasing, lest  Martin  should  leave  him.  He  seemed  to  hear  dimly, 
beyond  the  wall  of  the  mysterious  world  into  whose  regions  he  was 
ever  more  deeply  passing,  sentences,  vague,  without  human  agency, 
accusing  Martin  of  sins  and  infidelities  and  riotous  living.  Some- 
times he  was  tempted  to  go  further  into  this  and  challenge  Martin's 
accusers,  but  fear  held  him  back.  Martin  had  been  a  good  son 
since  his  return  to  England,  yes,  he  had,  and  he  had  forsaken  his 
evil  ways  and  was  going  to  be  with  his  father  now  until  the  end, 


254  THE  CAPTIVES 

his  last  refuge  against  loneliness.  Every  one  else  had  left  him  or 
was  leaving  him,  but  Martin  was  there.  Martin  hadn't  deceived 
him,  Martin  was  a  good  boy  ...  a  good  boy  .  .  .  and  then,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  with  Martin's  hand  in  his  own  he  would  pass  off 
into  his  world  of  strange  dreams  and  desperate  prayer  and  hours 
of  waiting,  listening,  straining  for  a  voice.   .    .    . 

During  that  last  night  before  New  Year's  Eve  an  hour  came 
to  him  when  he  seemed  to  be  left  utterly  alone.  Exhausted,  faint, 
dizzy  with  want  of  sleep  and  food,  he  knelt  before  his  bed;  his 
room  seemed  to  be  filled  with  devils,  taunting  him,  tempting  him, 
bewildering  and  blinding  him.  He  rose  suddenly  in  a  frenzy, 
striking  out,  rushing  about  his  room,  crying  .  .  .  then  at  last, 
exhausted,  creeping  back  to  his  bed,  falling  down  upon  it  and  sink- 
ing into  a  long  dreamless  sleep. 

They  found  him  sleeping  when  they  came  to  call  him  and  they 
left  him.  He  did  not  wake  until  the  early  afternoon;  his  brain 
seemed  clear  and  his  body  so  weak  that  it  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  he  washed  and  put  on  some  clothes. 

The  room  was  dark  with  the  fog ;  lamps  in  the  street  below  glim- 
mered uncertainly,  and  voices  and  the  traffic  of  the  street  were 
muffled.  He  opened  his  door  and,  looking  out,  heard  in  the  room 
below  Martin's  voice  raised  excitedly.  Slowly  he  went  down  to 
meet  him. 

Martin  also  had  reached,  on  that  last  day  of  the  year,  the  very 
end  of  his  tether.  During  the  last  ten  days  he  had  been  fighting 
against  every  weakness  to  which  his  character  was  susceptible. 
With  the  New  Year  he  felt  that  everything  would  be  well ;  he  could 
draw  a  new  breath  then,  find  work  somewhere  away  from  London, 
have  Maggie  perhaps  with  him,  and  drive  a  way  out  of  all  the 
tangle  of  his  perplexities.  But  even  then  he  did  not  dare  to  face 
the  future  thoroughly.  Would  his  father  let  him  go?  Was  he, 
after  all  his  struggles,  to  give  way  and  ruin  Maggie's  position  and 
future  ?  Could  he  be  sure,  if  he  took  her  away  with  him,  that  then 
he  would  keep  straight,  and  that  his  old  temptations  of  women  and 
drink  and  general  restlessness  would  be  conquered?  Perhaps. 
There  had  never  been  a  surer  proof  that  his  love  for  Maggie  was 
a  real  and  unselfish  love  than  his  hesitation  on  that  wretched  day 
when  he  seemed  utterly  deserted  by  mankind,  when  Maggie  seemed 
the  only  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 

Everything  was  just  out  of  reach,  and  some  perverse  destiny 
prevented  him  from  realising  any  desire  that  had  a  spark  of  hon- 
esty and  decency  in  it. 


THE  PROPHET  255 

It  was  not  wonderful  that  in  the  midst  of  his  loneliness  and 
unhappiness  he  should  have  been  tempted  back  to  the  old  paths 
again,  men,  women,  places  that  for  more  than  three  months  now 
he  had  been  struggling  to  abandon. 

All  that  day  he  struggled  with  temptation.  He  had  not  seen 
Maggie  for  a  week,  and  during  the  last  three  days  he  had  not  heard 
from  her,  the  adventurous  Jane  having  defied  the  aunts  and 
left. 

At  luncheon  he  asked  about  his  father,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  two  days. 

"Father  had  a  very  bad  night.     He's  asleep  now." 

"  There's  something  on  to-night,  isn't  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

u  There's  a  service,"  Amy  answered  shortly. 

"  Father  oughtn't  to  go,"  he  went  on.  "  I  suppose  your  friend 
Thurston  can  manage." 

Amy  looked  at  him.    "  Father's  got  to  go.    It's  very  important." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  kill  father  with  all  your  beastly 
services "  he  broke  in  furiously. 

"  It  won't  be "  Amy  began,  and  then,  as  though  she  did  not 

trust  herself  to  continue,  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "why  on  earth  don't  you  do  something?" 

"  I,  dear  ? "  she  looked  at  him  placidly.    "  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  They're  killing  father  between  them  with  all  these  services  and 
the  rest  of  the  nonsense." 

"  Your  father  doesn't  listen  to  anything  I  say,  dear." 

"  He  ought  to  go  away  for  a  long  rest." 

"  Well,  dear,  perhaps  he  will  soon.  You  know  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  Chapel.  That  was  settled  years  ago.  I  wouldn't  inter- 
fere for  a  great  deal." 

Martin  turned  fiercely  upon  her  saying: 

"Mother,  don't  you  care?" 

"Care,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  about  father — his  living  and  getting  well  again  and  being 
happy  as  he  used  to  be.    What's  happened  to  this  place  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  strangest  way.  He  suddenly  felt  that 
he'd  never  seen  her  before. 

"  There  are  a  number  of  things,  Martin,  that  you  don't  under- 
stand— a  number  of  things.  You  are  away  from  us  for  years,  you 
come  back  to  us  and  expect  things  to  be  the  same." 

"  You  and  Amy,"  he  said,  "  both  of  you,  have  kept  me  out  of 
everything  since  I  came  back.    I  believe  you  both  hate  me!" 

She  got  up  slowly  from  her  seat,  slowly  put  her  spectacles  away 
in  their  case,  rubbed  her  fat  little  hands  together,  then  suddenly 


256  THE  CAPTIVES 

licked  inquisitively  one  finger  as  an  animal  might  do.  She  spoke 
to  him  over  her  shoulder  as  she  went  to  the  door: 

"  Oh  no,  Martin,  you  speak  too  strongly." 

Left  then  to  his  own  devices  he,  at  last,  wandered  out  into  the 
foggy  streets.  After  a  while  he  found  himself  outside  a  public- 
house  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  went  in.  He  asked  the 
stout,  rubicund  young  woman  behind  the  counter  for  a  whisky. 
She  gave  him  one;  he  drank  that,  and  then  another. 

Afterwards  he  had  several  more,  leaning  over  the  bar,  speaking 
to  no  one,  seeing  no  one,  hearing  nothing,  and  scarcely  tasting  the 
drink.  When  he  came  out  into  the  street  again  he  knew  that  he 
was  half  drunk — not  so  drunk  that  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing.  Oh  dear,  no.  He  could  drink  any  amount  without  feeling 
it.  Nevertheless  he  had  drunk  so  little  during  these  last  weeks 
that  even  a  drop.  .  .  .  How  foggy  the  streets  were  .  .  .  made 
it  difficult  to  find  your  way  home.  But  he  was  all  right,  he  could 
walk  straight,  he  could  put  his  latch-key  into  the  door  at  one  try, 
he  was  all  right. 

He  was  at  home  again.  He  didn't  stop  to  hang  up  his  hat  and 
coat  but  went  straight  into  the  dining-room,  leaving  the  door  open 
behind  him.  He  saw  that  the  meal  was  still  on  the  table  just  as 
they'd  left  it.    Amy  was  there  too. 

He  saw  her  move  back  when  he  came  in  as  though  she  were 
afraid  to  touch  him. 

"  You're  drunk !  "  she  said. 

"I'm  not.  You're  a  liar,  Amy.  You've  always  been  a  liar  all 
your  life." 

She  tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  door. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  he  said.  "  We've  got  to  have  this  out.  What 
have  you  been  spreading  scandal  about  me  and  Maggie  Cardinal 
for?" 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said  again. 

"  Tell  me  that  first.  You've  always  tried  to  do  me  harm. 
Why?" 

"  Because  I  hate  the  sight  of  you,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  As 
you've  asked  me,  you  shall  have  a  truthful  answer.  You've  never 
been  anything  but  a  disgrace  to  us  ever  since  you  were  a  little  boy. 
You  disgraced  us  at  home  and  then  abroad;  now  you've  come  back 
to  disgrace  us  here  again." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  he  repeated.    "  I've  not  disgraced  anybody." 

"  Well,  it  won't  be  very  long  before  you  finish  ruining  that 
wretched  girL    The  best  you  can  do  now  is  to  marry  her." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  said.    "  I'm  married  already." 


THE  PROPHET  257 

She  did  not  answer  that  but  stared  at  him  with  amazement. 
"But  never  mind  that,"  he  went  on.  "What  if  I  am  a  bad  lot? 
I  don't  know  what  a  bad  lot  is  exactly,  but  if  you  mean  that  I've 
lived  with  women  and  been  drunk,  and  lost  jobs  because  I  didn't 
do  the  work,  and  been  generally  on  the  loose,  it's  true,  of  course. 
But  I  meant  to  live  decently  when  I  came  home.  Yes,  I  did.  You 
can  sneer  as  much  as  you  like.  Why  didn't  you  help  me  ?  You're 
my  sister,  aren't  you?  And  now  I  don't  care  what  I  do.  You've 
all  given  me  up.  Well,  give  me  up,  and  I'll  just  go  to  bits  as  fast 
as  I  can  go!  If  you  don't  want  me  there  are  others  who  do,  or 
at  any  rate  the  bit  of  money  I've  got.  You've  kept  me  from  the 
only  decent  girl  I've  ever  known,  the  one  I  could  have  been  straight 
with " 

"  Straight  with ! "  Amy  broke  in.  "  How  were  you  going  to  be 
straight  if  you're  married  already?" 

He  would  have  answered  her  but  a  sound  behind  him  made  him 
turn.  He  wheeled  round  and  saw  his  father  standing  almost  up 
against  him.  He  had  only  time  for  a  horrified  vision  of  the  ghost- 
like figure,  the  staring  eyes,  the  open  mouth,  the  white  cheeks. 
The  old  man  caught  his  coat. 

"Martin,  what  was  that?  What  did  you  say?  .  .  .  No,  no 
...  I  can't  bear  that  now.    I  can't,  I  can't." 

He  turned  and  made  as  though  he  would  run  up  the  stairs, 
catching  about  him  like  a  child  the  shabby  old  dressing-gown  that 
he  was  wearing.  At  the  first  step  he  stumbled,  clutching  the 
bannistei  to  save  himself. 

Martin  rushed  to  him.  putting  his  arms  round  him,  holding  him 
close  to  him.  "  It's  all  right,  father.  .  .  .  It's  not  true  what  you 
heard.  .    .    .  It's  all  right." 

His  father  turned,  putting  his  arms  round  his  neck. 

Mprtin  half  helped,  half  carried  him  up  to  his  bedroom.  He 
laid  him  on  his  bed  and  then,  holding  his  hand,  sat  by  his  side 
all  through  the  long  dim  afternoon. 

About  five  Warlock  suddenly  revived,  sat  up,  and  with  the  as- 
sistance of  Martin  dressed  properly,  had  some  tea,  and  went  down 
to  his  study.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair,  then  suddenly  looking  up 
at  his  son  he  said: 

"  Did  you  and  Amy  have  a  quarrel  this  afternoon?" 

"  No,  father."  said  Martin. 

"  That's  right.  I  thought— I  thought  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
My  head's  confused.  You've  been  a  good  boy,  Martin,  haven't 
you?    There's  no  need  for  me  to  worry,  is  there?" 

"  None,  father,"  Martin  said. 


"258  THE  CAPTIVES 

After  a  while  Martin  said : 

"  Father,  don't  go  to  Chapel  to-night." 

Warlock  smiled. 

"  I  must  go.    That's  all  right.  .   .   .  Nothing  to  worry  ahout." 

For  some  while  he  sat  there,  Martin's  hand  in  his;  Martin  did 
not  know  whether  he  were  asleep  or  not. 

At  about  ten  he  ate  and  drank.  At  eleven  he  started  with  Amy 
and  Thurston  for  the  Chapel. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 

WHEN  Jane,  scolded  by  Aunt  Anne  for  an  untidy  appearance, 
gave  notice  and  at  once  departed,  Maggie  felt  as  though  the 
ground  was  giving  way  under  her  feet. 

A  week  until  the  New  Year,  and  no  opportunity  of  hear- 
ing from  Martin  during  that  time.  Then  she  laughed  at  her- 
self: 

"  You're  losing  your  sense  of  proportion,  my  dear,  over  this. 
Laugh  at  yourself.     What's  a  week  ? " 

She  did  laugh  at  herself,  but  she  had  not  very  much  to  base 
her  laughter  upon.  Martin's  last  letters  had  been  short  and 
very  uneasy.  She  had  already,  in  a  surprising  fashion  for  one 
so  young,  acquired  a  very  wise  and  just  estimate  of  Martin's 
character. 

"  He's  only  a  boy,"  she  used  to  say  to  herself  and  feel  his 
elder  by  at  least  twenty  years.  Nevertheless  the  thought  of  his 
struggling  on  there  alone  was  not  a  happy  one.  She  longed,  even 
though  she  might  not  advise  him,  to  comfort  him.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  realise  something  of  her  own  power  over  him  and  to  see, 
too,  the  strange  mixture  of  superstition  and  self-reproach  and 
self-distrust  that  overwhelmed  him  when  she  was  not  with  him. 
She  had  indeed  her  own  need  of  struggle  against  superstition. 
Her  aunts  continued  to  treat  her  with  a  quiet  distant  severity. 
Aunt  Elizabeth,  she  fancied,  would  like  to  have  been  kind  to  her, 
but  she  was  entirely  under  the  influence  of  her  sister,  and  there, 
too,  Maggie  was  generous  enough  to  see  that  Aunt  Anne  behaved 
as  she  did  rather  from  a  stern  sense  of  duty  than  any  real  un- 
kindness.  Aunt  Anne  could  not  feel  unkindly;  she  was  too  far 
removed  from  human  temper  and  discontent  and  weakness.  Never- 
theless she  had  been  deeply  shocked  at  the  revelation  of  Maggie's 
bad  behaviour,  and  it  was  a  shock  from  which,  in  all  probability 
she  would  never  recover. 

"  We'll  never  be  friends  again,"  Maggie  thought,  watching  her 
aunt's  austere  composure  from  the  other  side  of  the  dining-table. 
She  was  sad  at  the  thought  of  that,  remembering  moments — that 
first  visit  to  St.  Dreot's,  the  departure  in  the  cab,  the  night  when 
she  had  sat  at  her  aunt's  bedside — that  had  given  glimpses  of  the 

250 


260  THE  CAPTIVES 

kind  human  creature  Aunt  Anne  might  have  been  had  she  never 
heard  of  the  Inside  Saints. 

Maggie,  during  these  last  days,  did  everything  that  her  aunts 
told  her.  She  was  as  good  and  docile  as  she  could  be.  But,  oh! 
there  were  some  dreary  hours  as  she  sat,  alone,  in  that  stuffy  draw- 
ing-room, trying  to  sew,  her  heart  aching  with  loneliness,  her 
needle  always  doing  the  wrong  thing,  the  clock  heavily  ticking, 
Thomas  watching  her  from  the  mat  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  the 
family  group  sneering  at  her  from  the  wall-paper. 

It  was  during  these  hours  that  superstitious  terrors  gained  upon 
her.  Could  it  be  possible  that  all  those  women  whom  she  had 
seen  gathered  together  in  Miss  Avies's  room  really  expected  God  to 
come  when  the  clock  struck  twelve  on  the  last  night  of  the  year  ?  It 
was  like  some  old  story  of  ghosts  and  witches  that  her  nurse  used  to 
tell  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl  at  St.  Dreot's.  And  yet,  in  that 
dark  dreary  room,  almost  anything  seemed  possible.  After  all, 
if  there  was  a  God,  why  should  He  not,  one  day,  suddenly  appear? 
And  if  He  wished  to  spare  certain  of  His  servants,  why  should 
He  not  prepare  them  first  before  He  came?  There  were  things 
just  as  strange  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament.  But  if  He  did 
come,  what  would  His  Coming  be  like?  Would  every  one  be 
burnt  to  death  or  would  they  all  be  summoned  before  some  judg- 
ment and  punished  for  the  wicked  things  they  had  done?  Would 
her  father  perhaps  return  and  give  evidence  against  her?  And 
poor  Uncle  Mathew,  how  would  he  fare  with  all  his  weaknesses? 
Her  efforts  at  laughing  at  herself  rescued  her  from  some  of  the 
more  incredible  of  these  pictures.  Nevertheless  the  uncertainty  re- 
mained and  only  increased  her  loneliness.  Had  Martin  been 
there  in  five  minutes  they  would,  together,  have  chased  all  these 
ghosts  away.  But  he  was  not  there.  And  at  the  thought  of  him 
she  would  have  to  set  her  mouth  very  firmly,  indeed,  to  prevent  her 
lips  from  trembling.  She  took  out  her  ring  and  kissed  it,  and 
looked  at  the  already  tattered  copy  of  the,  programme  of  the  play 
to  which  they  had  been,  and  recalled  every  minute  of  their  walks 
together. 

Christmas  Day  was  a  very  miserable  affair.  There  were  no 
presents  and  no  festivities.  They  went  to  Chapel  and  Mr.  Thurs- 
ton preached  the  sermon.  Maggie  did,  however,  receive  one  letter. 
It  was  from  Uncle  Mathew.  He  wrote  to  her  from  some  town  in 
the  north.  He  didn't  seem  very  happy,  and  asked  her  whether  she 
could  possibly  lend  him  five  pounds.  Alluding  with  a  character- 
istic vagueness  to  "  business  plans  of  the  first  importance  that 
were  likely  to  mature  very  shortly." 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  261 

She  told  Aunt  Anne  that  she  wanted  five  pounds  of  her  money, 
hut  she  did  not  say  for  what  she  needed  them. 

Aunt  Anne  gave  her  the  money  at  once  without  a  word — as 
though  she  said :  "  We  have  given  up  all  control  of  you  except  to 
see  that  you  behave  decently  whilst  you  are  still  with  us." 

When  the  fog  arrived  it  seemed  to  penetrate  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  house.  The  daily  afternoon  walk  that  Maggie  took 
with  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  cancelled  because  of  the  difficulty  of  find- 
ing one's  way  from  street  to  street  and  "  because  some  rude  man 
might  steal  one's  money  in  the  darkness,"  and  Maggie  was  not 
sorry.  Those  walks  had  not  been  amusing,  Aunt  Elizabeth  hav- 
ing nothing  to  say  and  being  fully  occupied  with  keeping  an  eye 
on  Maggie,  her  idea  apparently  being  that  the  girl  would  suddenly 
dash  off  to  freedom  and  wickedness  and  be  lost  for  ever.  Maggie 
had  no  such  intention  and  developed  during  these  weeks  a  queer 
motherly  affection  for  both  the  aunts,  so  lost  they  were  and  helpless 
and  ignorant  of  the  world!  "My  dear,"  said  Maggie  to  herself, 
"  you're  a  bit  of  a  fool  as  far  as  common-sense  goes,  but  you're 
nothing  to  what  they  are,  poor  dears."  She  tried  to  improve  her- 
self in  every  way  for  their  benefit,  but  her  memory  was  no  better. 
She  forgot  all  the  things  that  were,  in  their  eyes,  the  most  im- 
portant— closing  doors,  punctuality  for  meals,  neat  stitches,  careful 
putting  away  of  books  and  clothes. 

Once,  during  a  walk,  she  said  to  Aunt  Elizabeth: 

"  I  am  trying,  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Do  you  think  Aunt  Anne  sees 
any  improvement?" 

And  all  Aunt  Elizabeth  said  was: 

"  It  was  a  great  shock  to  her,  what  you  did,  Maggie — a  great 
shock  indeed ! " 

When  the  last  day  of  the  year  arrived  Maggie  was  surprised  at 
the  strange  excitement  that  she  felt.  It  was  excitement,  not 
only  because  of  the  dim  mysterious  events  that  the  evening  prom- 
ised, but  also  because  she  was  sure  that  this  day  would  settle  the 
loneliness  of  herself  and  Martin.  After  this  they  would  know 
where  they  stood  and  what  they  must  do.  Old  Warlock  loomed  in 
front  of  her  as  the  very  arbiter  of  her  destiny.  On  his  action 
everything  turned.  Oh !  if  only  after  this  he  were  well  enough  for 
Martin  to  be  happy  and  at  ease  about  him!  She  was  tempted  to 
hate  him  as  she  thought  of  all  the  trouble  that  he  had  made  for 
her.  Then  her  mind  went  back  to  that  first  day  long  ago  when 
he  had  spoken  to  her  so  kindly  and  bidden  her  come  and  see  him 
as  often  as  she  could.  How  little  she  had  known  then  what  the 
future  held  for  her!    And  now  around  his  tall  mysterious  figure 


262  THE  CAPTIVES 

not  only  her  own  fate  but  that  of  every  one  else  seemed  to  hang. 
Her  aunts,  Amy,  Miss  Pyncheon,  Miss  Avies,  Thurston,  that 
strange  girl  at  the  meeting,  with  them  all  his  destiny  was  in- 
volved and  they  with  his. 

As  the  day  advanced  and  the  silver  fog  blew  in  little  gusts 
about  the  house,  making  now  this  corner  now  that  obscure,  drifting, 
so  that  suddenly,  when  the  door  opened,  the  whole  passage  seemed 
full  of  smoke,  clearing,  for  a  moment,  in  the  street  below,  showing 
lamp-posts  and  pavements  and  windows,  and  then  blowing  down 
again  and  once  more  hiding  the  world,  she  felt,  in  spite  of  herself, 
that  she  was  playing  a  part  in  some  malignant  dream.  "  It  can't 
be  like  this  really,"  she  told  herself.  "  If  I  were  to  go  to  tea 
now  with  Mrs.  Mark  and  sit  in  her  pretty  drawing-room  and 
talk  to  that  clergyman  I  wouldn't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

And  yet  it  was  true  enough,  her  share  in  it.  As  the  afternoon 
advanced  her  sensations  were  very  similar  to  those  that  she  had 
had  when  about  to  visit  the  St.  Dreot's  dentist,  a  fearsome  man 
with  red  hair  and  hands  like  a  dog's  paws.  She  saw  him  now 
standing  over  her  as  she  sat  trembling  in  the  chair,  a  miserable 
little  figure  in  a  short  untidy  frock.  She  used  to  repeat  to  her- 
self then  what  Uncle  Mathew  had  once  told  her :  "  This  time  next 
year  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about  this,"  but  when  it  was  a 
question  of  facing  the  immensities  of  the  Last  Day  that  consola- 
tion was  strangely  inapt.  It  was  dusk  very  early  and  she  longed 
for  Martha  to  bring  the  lamp. 

At  last  it  came  and  tea  and  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Aunt  Anne  had 
not  appeared  all  day.  Then  long  dreary  hours  followed  until 
supper,  and  after  that  hours  again  until  ten  o'clock. 

She  had  not  been  certain,  all  this  time,  whether  the  aunts  meant 
to  take  her  to  the  service  with  them.  She  had  supposed  that  her 
introduction  to  the  meeting  at  Miss  Avies's  meant  that  they  in- 
tended to  include  her  in  this  too,  but  now,  as  the  evening  advanced, 
in  a  fit  of  nervous  terror  she  prayed  within  herself  that  they  would 
not  take  her.  If  the  end  of  the  world  were  coming  she  would 
like  to  meet  it  in  her  bed.  To  go  out  into  those  streets  and  that 
ugly  unfriendly  Chapel  was  a  horrible  thing  to  do.  If  this  were 
to  be  the  end  of  the  world  how  she  did  wish  that  she  might  have 
been  allowed  to  know  nothing  about  it.  And  those  others — Miss 
Pyncheon  and  the  rest  who  devoutly  believed  in  the  event — how 
were  they  passing  these  last  hours? 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  true !  It  can't  be  true !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  It's 
a  shame  to  frighten  them  so ! " 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  excitement  of  the  day  had  wearied  her 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  263 

so  that  she  fell  fast  asleep  in  the  arm-chair  beside  the  fire.  She 
woke  to  find  Aunt  Anne  standing  over  her. 

"  It's  a  quarter  past  eleven.  It's  time  to  put  on  your  things," 
she  said.  So  she  was  to  go!  She  rose  and,  in  spite  of  herself, 
her  limbs  were  trembling  and  her  teeth  chattered.  To  her  sur- 
prise Aunt  Anne  bent  forward  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  "  if  I've  been  harsh  to  you  during  these 
weeks  I'm  sorry.  I've  done  what  I  thought  my  duty,  but  I 
wouldn't  wish  on  this  night  that  we  should  have  any  unkindness 
in  our  hearts  towards  one  another." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Maggie  said  awkwardly. 

She  went  up  to  put  on  her  things;  then  the  three  of  them  went 
out  into  the  dark  foggy  street  together. 

Because  it  was  New  Year's  Eve  there  were  many  people  about, 
voices  laughing  and  shouting  through  the  mist  and  then  some  one 
running  with  a  flaring  light,  then  some  men  walking  singing  in 
chorus.  The  aunts  said  nothing  as  they  went.  Maggie's  thoughts 
were  given  now  to  wondering  whether  Martin  would  be  there.  She 
tied  her  mind  to  that,  but  behind  it  was  the  irritating  knowledge 
that  her  teeth  were  chattering  and  her  knees  trembling  and  that 
she  did  not  maintain  her  courage  as  a  Cardinal  should. 

As  they  entered  the  Chapel  the  hoarse  ugly  clock  over  the  door 
grunted  out  half-past  eleven.  The  Chapel  seemed  on  Maggie's 
entering  it  to  be  half  in  darkness,  there  was  a  thin  splutter  of  gas 
over  the  reading-desk  at  the  far  end  and  some  more  light  by  the 
door,  but  the  centre  of  the  building  was  a  shadowy  pool.  Only  a 
few  were  present,  gathered  together  in  the  middle  seats  below  the 
desk,  perhaps  in  all  a  hundred  persons.  Of  these  three-quarters 
were  women.  The  aunts  and  Maggie  went  into  their  accustomed 
seat  some  six  rows  from  the  front.  When  Maggie  rose  from  her 
knees  and  looked  about  her  she  recognised  at  once  that  only  the 
Inside  Saints  were  here. 

Amongst  the  men  she  recognised  Mr.  Smith,  Caroline's  father, 
two  old  men,  brothers,  who  had  followed  Mr.  Warlock  from  their 
youth,  and  a  young  pale  man  who  had  once  been  to  tea  with 
her  aunts.    Martin  she  saw  at  once  was  not  there. 

For  some  time,  perhaps  for  ten  minutes,  they  all  sat  in  silence,, 
and  only  the  gruff  comment  of  the  clock  sounded  in  the  building. 
Then  the  lights  went  up  with  a  flare  and  Thurston,  followed  by 
Mr.  Warlock,  entered.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  Maggie  had  a 
revelation.  The  faces  around  her  seemed  to  be  suddenly  gathered 
in  front  of  her,  and  it  was  with  a  start  of  surprise  that  she  sud- 
denly realised :  "  Oh,  but  they  don't  believe  in  this  any  more  than 


264  THE  CAPTIVES 

I  do ! "  The  faces  around  her  were  agitated,  with  odd  humble  be- 
seeching looks,  as  though  they  were  helpless  utterly  and  were 
hoping  that  some  one  would  suddenly  come  and  lead  them  some- 
where that  they  might  be  comfortable  again  and  at  ease. 

There  was  not  to-night,  as  there  had  been  on  other  occasions 
(and  especially  during  that  service  that  Mr.  Crashaw  had  con- 
ducted), any  sign  of  religious  and  mystical  excitement.  The 
people  seemed  huddled  together  in  the  cold  and  draughty  place 
against  their  will,  and  the  very  fact  that  the  Chapel  was  only  half 
full  chilled  the  blood.  No  drama  of  exultation  here,  no  band  of 
God's  servants  gloriously  preparing  to  meet  Him,  only  the  fright- 
ened open-mouthed  gaze  of  a  little  gathering  of  servant  girls 
and  old  maids.  That  was  Maggie's  first  impression;  then,  when 
the  service  began,  when  the  first  hymn  had  been  sung  and  Thurs- 
ton had  stumbled  into  his  extempore  prayer,  Maggie  found  her- 
self caught  into  a  strange  companionship  with  the  people  around 
her.  Not  now  ecstasy  nor  the  excitement  of  religious  fanaticism 
nor  the  superstitious  preparation  for  some  awful  events — none  of 
these  emotions  now  lifted  her  into  some  strained  unnatural  sphere 
— no,  nothing  but  a  strange  sympathy  and  kindness  and  under- 
standing that  she  had  never  known  in  all  her  life  before.  She  felt 
the  hunger,  the  passionate  appeal :  "  Oh  God  come !  Prove  Thy- 
self!  We  have  waited  so  long.  We  have  resisted  unbelievers,  we 
have  fought  our  own  doubts  and  betrayals,  give  us  now  a  Sign! 
something  by  which  we  may  know  Thee !  "  and  with  that  appeal 
the  conviction  in  the  hearts  of  almost  all  present  that  nothing  would 
happen,  that  God  would  give  no  sign,  that  the  age  of  miracles  was 
past. 

u  Oh,  why  did  He  want  to  be  so  definite,"  she  thought.  "  Why 
couldn't  He  have  left  them  as  they  were  without  forcing  them  to 
this." 

They  were  sitting  down  now,  and  Thurston,  with  his  cheap  sense 
of  the  dramatic  and  false  emphasis,  was  reading  from  the  New 
Testament.  Maggie  looked  to  where  Mr.  Warlock  was,  a  little 
to  the  right  of  Thurston,  in  his  black  gown,  his  head  a  little 
lowered,  his  hands  on  his  lap. 

When  she  saw  him  she  was  touched  to  the  very  heart.  Why,  he 
had  aged  in  the  last  month  a  hundred  years!  He  looked,  sitting 
there,  so  frail  and  helpless  that  it  seemed  wonderful  that  he  should 
have  been  able  to  get  there  at  all. 

His  hair  seemed  to  have  an  added  intensity  of  whiteness  to- 
night, and  his  beard  lay  against  the  black  cloth  of  his  gown  with 
a  contrast  so  sharp  that  it  was  unreal.     Maggie  fancied,  as  she 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  265 

watched  him,  that  he  was  bewildered  and  scarcely  knew  where  he 
was.  Once  he  looked  up  and  round  about  him;  he  put  his  hand 
to  his  brow  and  then  let  it  fall  as  though  he  had  no  longer  any 
control  over  it. 

She  was  now  so  touched  by  the  pathos  of  his  helplessness  that 
she  could  think  of  nothing  else  and  longed  to  go  to  him  and 
comfort  him.  Time  stole  on  and  it  was  now  ten  minutes  to 
twelve.  They  sang  another  hymn,  but  the  voices  were  very  weak 
and  feeble  and  the  words  quivered  round  the  building  in  a  ghostly 
whisper.  Then  Thurston  came  to  the  Master  and  gave  him  his 
arm  and  led  him  to  the  reading-desk.  The  old  man  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  though  he  would  fall,  then,  holding  to  the  front  of  the 
desk,  he  spoke  in  a  very  weak  and  faltering  voice.  Maggie  could 
not  catch  many  of  his  words :  "  My  children — only  a  little  time 
— Our  preparation  now  is  finished.  .  .  .  God  has  promised. 
.  .  .  Not  the  least  of  these  His  little  ones  shall  perish.  .  .  . 
Let  us  not  fear  but  be  ready  to  meet  Him  as  our  Friend  .  .  . 
our  Friend.  .  .  .  God  our  Father.  ..."  Then  in  a  stronger 
voice :  "  Now  during  these  last  minutes  let  us  kneel  in  silent 
prayer." 

They  all  knelt  down.  Maggie  had  no  thoughts,  no  desire  ex- 
cept that  the  time  might  pass;  she  seemed  to  kneel  there  asleep 
waiting  for  the  moment  when  some  one  should  tell  her  that  the 
time  had  gone  and  she  was  safe.  The  moments  dragged  eternally; 
a  thrilling  suspense  like  a  flood  of  water  pouring  into  an  empty 
space  had  filled  the  Chapel.  No  one  moved.  Suddenly  into  the 
heart  of  the  silence  there  struck  the  first  note  of  the  clock  tolling 
the  hour.  With  Maggie  it  was  as  though  that  sound  liberated 
her  from  the  spell  that  had  been  upon  her.  She  looked  up;  she 
saw  the  master  standing,  his  hands  stretched  out,  his  face  splendid 
with  glory  and  happiness. 

He  looked  beyond  them  all,  beyond  the  Chapel,  beyond  the  world. 
He  gave  one  cry: 

"  My  God,  Thou  art  come."  Some  other  words  followed  but  were 
caught  up  and  muffled.  He  fell  forward,  collapsing  in  a  heap 
against  the  desk.  His  head  struck  the  wood  and  then  he  lay  there 
perfectly  still. 

Maggie  could  only  dimly  gather  what  happened  after  the  sound 
of  that  fall.  There  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  long  and  terrible  silence 
during  which  the  clock  continued  remorselessly  to  strike.  The 
Chapel  appeared  to  be  a  place  of  shadows  as  though  the  gas 
had  suddenly  died  to  dim  haloes;  she  was  conscious  that  people 
moved  about  her,  that  Aunt  Anne  had  left  them,  and  that  Aunt 


266  THE  CAPTIVES 

Elizabeth  was  saying  to  her  again  and  again :  "  How  terrible  1  How 
terrible !     How  terrible !  " 

Then  as  though  it  were  some  other  person,  Maggie  found  herself 
very  calmly  speaking  to  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  Are  we  to  wait  for  Aunt  Anne?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Anne  said  we  were  to  go  home." 

"  Then  let's  go,"  whispered  Maggie. 

They  went  to  the  door,  pushing,  it  seemed,  through  shadows 
who  whispered  and  forms  that  vanished  as  soon  as  one  looked 
at  them. 

Out  in  the  open  air  Maggie  was  aware  that  she  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  but  a  determined  idea  that  she  must 
get  Aunt  Elizabeth  home  at  once  drove  her  like  a  goad.  Very 
strange  it  was  out  here,  the  air  ringing  with  the  clamour  of 
bells.  The  noise  seemed  deafening,  whistles  blowing  from  the 
river,  guns  firing  and  this  swinging  network  of  bells  echoing 
through  the  fog.  Figures,  too,  ran  with  lights,  men  singing, 
women  laughing,  all  mysteriously  in  the  tangled  darkness. 

They  were  joined  at  once  by  Aunt  Anne,  who  said: 

"  God  has  called  him  home,"  by  which  Maggie  understood  that 
Mr.  Warlock  was  dead. 

They  went  home  in  silence.  Inside  the  hall  Aunt  Elizabeth 
began  to  cry.  Aunt  Anne  put  her  arm  around  her  and  led  her 
away;  they  seemed  completely  to  forget  Maggie,  leaving  her 
standing  in  the  dark  hall  by  herself. 

She  found  a  candle  and  went  up  to  her  room.  The  noise  in 
the  streets  had  ceased  quite  suddenly  as  though  some  angry  voice 
had  called  the  world  to  order. 

Maggie  undressed  and  lay  down  in  her  bed.  She  lay  there  star- 
ing in  front  of  her  without  closing  her  eyes.  She  watched  the 
grey  dawn,  then  the  half-light,  then,  behind  her  blind,  bright 
sunshine.     The  fog  was  no  more. 

The  strangest  fancies  and  visions  passed  through  her  brain 
during  that  time.  She  saw  Mr.  Warlock  hanging  forward  like 
a  sack  of  clothes,  the  blood  trickling  stealthily  across  his  beard. 
Poor  old  man!  What  were  the  others  all  thinking  now?  Were 
they  sorry  or  glad?  Were  they  disappointed  or  relieved?  After 
all,  he  had,  perhaps,  spoken  the  truth  so  far  as  he  was  himself 
concerned.  God  had  come  for  him.  He  was  now  it  might  be 
happy  somewhere  at  peace  and  at  rest.  Then  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  across  the  darkness  came  the  thought  of  Martin.  What 
had  he  said  ?    "  If  anything  happened  to  his  father " 

The  terror  of  that  made  her  heart  stop  beating.     She  wanted 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  267 

instantly  to  go  to  him  and  see  what  he  was  doing.  She  even  rose 
from  her  bed,  stumbled  in  the  darkness  towards  her  dressing-table, 
then  remembered  where  she  was  and  what  time  and  went  back 
and  sat  upon  her  bed. 

She  sat  there,  her  fingers  tightly  pressed  together,  staring  in 
front  of  her  until  the  morning  came.  She  felt  at  her  heart  a 
foreboding  worse  than  any  pain  that  she  had  ever  known.  She 
determined  that,  directly  after  breakfast,  whatever  the  aunts  would 
say,  she  would  go  to  his  house  and  demand  to  see  him.  She  did 
not  mind  who  might  try  to  prevent  her,  she  would  fight  her 
way  through  them  all.  Only  one  look,  one  word  of  assurance  from 
him,  and  then  she  could  endure  anything.  That  she  must  have  or 
she  would  die. 

At  last  Martha  knocked  on  the  door;  she  had  her  bath,  dressed, 
still  with  this  terrible  pain  at  her  heart. 

She  was  alone  at  breakfast,  she  drank  some  coffee,  then  went 
up  to  the  drawing-room  to  think  for  a  moment  what  course  she 
should  pursue.  The  room  was  flooded  with  sunlight  that  struck 
the  fire  into  a  dead,  lifeless  yellow. 

As  she  stood  there  she  heard  through  the  open  door  voices 
in  the  hall.  But  before  she  had  heard  the  voices  she  knew  that 
it  was  Martin. 

Martha  was  expostulating,  her  voice  following  his  step  up  the 
hall. 

u  I  shall  go  and  tell  my  mistress,"  Maggie  heard. 

Then  Martin  came  in. 

When  she  saw  him  she  stood  speechless  where  she  was.  The 
change  in  him  terrified  her  so  that  her  heart  seemed  to  leap  into 
her  throat  choking  her.  The  colour  had  drained  from  his  face, 
leaving  it  dry  and  yellow.  He  had  an  amazing  resemblance  to  his 
father,  his  eyes  had  exactly  the  same  bewildered  expression  as 
though  he  were  lost  and  yet  he  seemed  quite  calm,  his  only  move- 
ment was  one  hand  that  wandered  up  and  down  his  waistcoat  feel- 
ing the  buttons  one  after  the  other. 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  did  not  know  her,  and  yet  he 
spoke  her  name. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  to  say  good-bye.  You  know 
what  I  said  before.  Well,  it's  come  true.  Father  is  dead,  and  I 
killed  him." 

With  a  terrible  effort,  beating  down  a  terror  that  seemed  per- 
sonally to  envelop  her,  she  said: 

"  No,  Martin.    I  saw  him  die.    It  wasn't  you,  Martin  dear." 

"  It  was  I,"  he  answered.    "  You  don't  know.    I  came  into  the 


268  THE  CAPTIVES 

house  drunk  and  he  heard  what  I  said  to  Amy.  He  nearly  died 
then.  The  doctor  in  the  evening  said  he  must  have  had  some 
shock." 

She  tried  to  come  to  him  then.  She  was  thinking :  "  Oh,  if  I've 
only  got  time  I  can  win  this.  But  I  must  have  time.  I  must 
have  time." 

He  moved  away  from  her,  as  he  had  done  once  before. 

"  Anyway,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "  I've  killed  him  by  the 
way  I've  been  behaving  to  him  all  these  months.  I'm  going  away 
where  I  can't  do  any  harm." 

She  desperately  calmed  herself,  speaking  very  quietly. 

"  Listen,  Martin.  You  haven't  done  him  any  harm.  He's  hap- 
pier now  than  he's  been  for  years.  I  know  he  is.  And  that 
doesn't  touch  us.  You  can't  leave  me  now.  Where  you  go  I 
must  go." 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  No,  Maggie.  I  ought  to  have  gone  before. 
I  knew  it  then,  but  I  know  it  absolutely  now.  Everything  I 
touch  I  hurt,  so  I  mustn't  touch  anything  I  care  for." 

She  put  her  hands  out  towards  him;  words  had  left  her.  She 
would  have  given  her  soul  for  words  and  she  could  say  nothing. 

She  was  surrounded  with  a  hedge  of  fright  and  terror  and  she 
could  not  pass  it. 

He  seemed  to  see  then  in  her  eyes  her  despair.  For  an  instant 
he  recognised  her.  Their  eyes  met  for  the  first  time;  she  felt  that 
she  was  winning.  She  began  eagerly  to  speak :  "  Listen,  Martin 
dear.  You  can't  do  me  any  harm.  You  can  only  hurt  me  by 
leaving  me.  I've  told  you  before.  Just  think  of  that  and  only 
that." 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Anne  came  in. 

He  turned  to  her  very  politely.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  coming, 
Miss  Cardinal,"  he  said.  "  I  know  what  you  must  think  of 
me,  but  it's  all  right.  I've  only  come  to  say  good-bye  to  Maggie. 
It's  all  right.  Neither  you  nor  Maggie  will  be  bothered  with  me 
again." 

He  turned  to  the  open  door.  Aunt  Anne  stood  aside  to  let  him 
pass.    Maggie  said: 

"  Martin,  don't  go !  Martin,  don't  leave  me !  Don't  leave 
me,  Martin ! " 

He  seemed  to  break  then  in  his  resolution. 

"  It's  better.  It's  better,"  he  cried,  as  though  he  were  shouting 
himself  down,  and  then  pushing  Aunt  Anne  with  his  arm  he 
hurried  out  almost  running,  his  steps  stumbling  down  the  stairs. 

Maggie  ran  to  the  door.    Her  aunt  stopped  her,  holding  her  back. 


THE  CHAKIOT  OF  FIRE  269 

"  It's  better,  Maggie  dear,"  she  said  very  gently,  repeating  Mar- 
tin's words. 

The  sound  of  the  hall  door  closing  echoed  through  the  house. 

Maggie  struggled,  crying  again  and  again :  "  Let  me  go !  Let 
me  go !    I  must  go  with  him !    I  can't  live  without  him !    Let  me 


£0 


!  " 


She  fought  then,  and  with  one  hand  free  hit  Aunt  Anne's  face, 
twisting  her  body.  Then,  suddenly  weak,  so  that  she  saw  faintness 
coming  towards  her  like  a  cloak,  she  whispered: 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  let  me  go !  Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  let  me  go ! 
Please,  please,  let  me  go ! " 

Suddenly  the  house  was  darkened,  at  her  feet  was  a  gulf  of 
blackness,  and  into  it  she  tumbled,  down,  far  down,  with  a  last 
little  gasping  sigh  of  distress. 


PART  III 
THE  WITCH 


CHAPTEK  I 

THE  THREE  VISITS 

ON  a  spring  day,  early  in  March  of  the  next  year,  1908,  Mathew 
Cardinal  thought  that  he  would  go  and  discover  how  his  niece 
was  prospering.  He  had  seen  nothing  of  her  for  a  very  long 
time. 

He  did  not  blame  himself  for  this,  but  then  he  never  blamed 
himself  for  anything.  A  fate,  often  drunken  and  always  imbecile, 
was  to  blame  for  everything  that  he  did,  and  he  pitied  himself 
sincerely  for  having  to  be  in  the  hands  of  such  a  creature.  He 
happened  to  be  just  now  very  considerably  frightened  about  him- 
self, more  frightened  than  he  had  been  for  a  very  long  time, 
so  frightened  in  fact  that  he  had  drunk  nothing  for  weeks.  For 
many  years  he  had  been  leading  a  see-saw  existence,  and  the  see- 
saw had  been  swung  by  that  mysterious  force  known  as  Finance. 
He  had  a  real  gift  for  speculation,  and  had  he  been  granted  from 
birth  a  large  income  he  might  have  ended  his  days  as  a  Justice 
of  the  Peace  and  a  Member  of  Parliament.  Unfortunately  he 
had  never  had  any  private  means,  and  he  had  never  been  able  to 
make  enough  by  his  mysterious  speculations  to  float  him  into 
security — "  Let  me  once  get  so  far,"  he  would  say  to  himself, 
"  and  I  am  a  made  man."  But  drink,  an  easy  tolerance  of  bad 
company,  and  a  rather  touching  conceit  had  combined  to  divorce 
him  from  so  fine  a  destiny.  He  had  risen,  he  had  fallen,  made 
a  good  thing  out  of  this  tip,  been  badly  done  over  that,  and  missed 
opportunity  after  opportunity  through  a  fuddled  brain  and  an 
overweening  self-confidence. 

Last  year  for  several  months  everything  had  succeeded;  it  was 
during  that  happy  period  that  he  had  visited  Maggie.  Perhaps  it 
was  well  for  his  soul  that  success  had  not  continued.  He  was  a 
man  whom  failure  improved,  having  a  certain  childish  warmth  of 
heart  and  simplicity  of  outlook  when  things  went  badly  with  him. 
Success  made  him  abominably  conceited,  and  being  without  any 
morality  self-confidence  drove  him  to  disastrous  lengths.  Now  once 
more  he  was  very  near  destruction  and  he  knew  it,  very  near 
things  like  forging  and  highway  robbery,  and  other  things  worse 
than  they.  He  knew  that  he  was  very  near;  he  peered  over  into 
the  pit  and  did  not  wish  to  descend.    He  was  not  a  bad  man,  and 

273 


274  THE  CAPTIVES 

had  he  not  believed  himself  to  be  a  clever  one  all  might  yet  have 
been  well.  The  temptation  of  his  cleverness  lured  him  on.  A 
Stroke  of  the  pen  was  a  very  simple  thing.    .    .    . 

To  save  his  soul  he  thought  that  he  would  go  and  see  Maggie. 
His  affection  for  her,  conceited  and  selfish  though  it  was,  was 
the  most  genuine  thing  in  him.  For  three-quarters  of  the  year 
he  forgot  her,  but  when  life  went  badly  he  thought  of  her  again 
— not  that  he  expected  to  get  anything  out  of  her,  but  she  was  I 
good  to  him  and  she  knew  nothing  about  his  life,  two  fine  bases  J 
for  safety. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  to  her,  those  damned  hypocrites, 
I  wonder,"  was  his  thought.  He  admired,  feared,  and  despised  his 
sisters.  "  All  that  stuff  about  God "  frightened  him  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  he  knew,  in  his  soul,  that  Anne  was  no  hypocrite. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  faced  Martha.  He  had  dressed  himself 
with  some  care  and  was  altogether  more  tidy  just  then,  having 
a  new  mistress  who  cared  about  outside  appearances.  Also,  having 
been  sober  for  nearly  two  months,  he  looked  a  gentleman. 

"  Is  my  niece  at  home  ? "  he  asked,  blinking  because  he  was 
frightened  of  Martha. 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  prepared  to  let  him  in. 

"  Miss  Maggie  has  been  very  ill,"  she  said,  frowning  at  him. 

"111?"  That  really  hurt  him.  He  stammered,  "  Why  ?  .  .  . 
When?" 

She  moved  aside  then  for  him  to  pass  into  the  hall.  He  came 
into  the  dark  stuffy  place. 

"  Yes,"  said  Martha.  "  Just  after  Christmas.  Brain-fever,  the 
doctors  said.  They  thought  she'd  die  for  weeks.  Had  two  doc- 
tors.   .   .    .    You  can't  see  her,  sir,"  she  ended  grumpily. 

Then  Aunt  Anne  appeared,  coming  through  the  green-baize  door. 

"  Why,  Mathew,"  she  said.  Mathew  thought  how  ill  she  looked. 
"  They're  all  ill  here,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"  So  Maggie's  ill,"  he  said,  dropping  his  eyes  before  her  as 
he  always  did. 

"  Yes,"  Aunt  Anne  answered.  "  She  was  very  ill  indeed,  poor 
child.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mathew.  It's  a  long  time  since  you've 
been." 

He  thought  she  was  gentler  to  him  than  she  had  been,  so,  mas- 
tering his  fear  of  her,  fingering  his  collar,  he  said: 
"  Can't  I  see  her?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  not  ...  I  think  you  might.  It  might  do  her 
good.  She  wants  taking  out  of  herself.  She  comes  down  for  an 
hour  or  two  every  day  now.    I'll  go  and  see." 


THE  THREE  VISITS  275 

She  left  him  standing  alone  there.  He  looked  around  him, 
sniffing  like  a  dog.  How  he  hated  the  house  and  everything  in  it ! 
Always  had.  .  .  .  You  could  smell  that  fellow  Warlock's  trail 
over  everything.  The  black  cat,  Tom,  came  slipping  along,  looked 
for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  rub  himself  against  Mathew's 
stout  legs,  then  decided  that  he  would  not.  Mysterious  this  place 
like  a  well>  with  its  green  shadows.  No  wonder  the  poor  child  had 
been  ill  here.  At  the  thought  of  her  being  near  to  death  Mathew 
felt  a  choke  in  his  throat.  Poor  child,  never  had  any  fun  all  her 
life  and  then  to  die  in  a  green  well  like  this.  And  his  sisters 
wouldn't  care  if  she  did,  hard  women,  hard  women.  Funny  how 
religion  made  you  hard,  darn  funny.  Good  thing  he'd  been  irre- 
ligious all  his  life.  Think  of  his  brother  Charles!  There  was 
religion  for  you,  living  with  his  cook  and  preaching  to  her  next 
morning.     Bad  thing  religion! 

Aunt  Anne  returned,  coming  down  the  stairs  with  that  queer 
halting  gait  of  hers. 

"  Maggie's  in  the  drawing-room,"  she  said.  '  She'll  like  to  see 
you." 

As  they  went  up,  Aunt  Anne  said :  "  Be  careful  with  her,  Mathew. 
She's  still  very  weak.    Don't  say  anything  to  upset  her  ? " 

He  mumbled  something  in  his  throat.  Couldn't  trust  him. 
Of  course  they  couldn't.  Never  had.  .  .  .  Fine  sort  of  sisters 
they  were. 

Maggie  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders.  By 
God,  but  she  looked  ill.  Mathew  had  another  gulp  in  his  throat. 
Poor  kid,  but  she  did  look  ill.    Poor  kid,  poor  kid. 

"  Sorry  you've  been  bad,  Maggie,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up,  smiling  with  pleasure,  when  she  saw  who  it 
was.  Yes,  she  was  really  pleased  to  see  him.  But  how  different 
a  smile  from  the  old  one!  No  blood  behind  it,  none  of  that  old 
Maggie  determination.  He  was  filled  with  compassion.  He  took  a 
chair  close  beside  her  and  sat  down,  leaning  towards  her,  his  large 
rather  sheepish  eyes  gazing  at  her. 

•  What's  been  the  matter  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Maggie  said.  "  I  was  suddenly  ill  one  day, 
and  after  that  I  didn't  know  any  more  for  weeks.  But  I'm  much 
better  now." 

"  Well.  I'm  delighted  to  hear  that  anyway,"  he  said  heartily. 
He  was  determined  to  cheer  her  up.  "You'll  be  as  right  as  rain 
presently." 

•  Of  course  I  shall.  I've  felt  so  lazy,  as  though  I  didn't  want 
to  do  anything.     Now  I  must  stir  myself." 


276  THE  CAPTIVES 

"Have  the  old  women  been  good  to  you?"  he  asked,  dropping 
his  voice. 

"  Very,"  she  answered. 

"Not  bothering  you  about  all  their  religious  tommy-rot?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  hands. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  And  that  hypocritical  minister  of  theirs  hasn't  been  at  you 
again  ?  " 

u  Mr.  Warlock's  dead,"  she  answered  very  quietly. 

"  Warlock  dead !  "  Uncle  Mathew  half  rose  from  his  chair  in 
his  astonishment.    "  That  fellow  dead !    Well,  I'm  damned,  indeed 

I  am.    That  fellow !    Well,  there's  a  good  riddance!    I  know 

it  isn't  good  form  to  speak  about  a  man  who's  kicked  the  bucket 
otherwise  than  kindly,  but  he  was  a  weight  on  my  chest  that 
fellow  was,  with  his  long  white  beard  and  his  soft  voice.  .  .  . 
Well,  well.  To  be  sure!  Whatever  will  my  poor  sisters  do?  And 
what's  happened  to  that  young  chap,  his  son,  nice  lad  he  was, 
took  dinner  with  us  that  day  last  year  ? " 

"  He's  gone  away,"  said  Maggie.  Mathew,  stupid  though  he  was, 
heard  behind  the  quiet  of  Maggie's  voice  a  warning.  He  flung 
her  a  hurried  surreptitious  look.  Her  face  was  perfectly  com- 
posed, her  hands  still  upon  her  lap.  Nevertheless  he  said 
to  himself,  "  Danger  there,  my  boy !  Something's  happened 
there!" 

And  yet  his  curiosity  drove  him  for  a  moment  further. 

"  Gone,  has  he?    Where  to?" 

"  He  went  abroad,"  said  Maggie,  "  after  his  father's  death.  I 
don't  know  where  he's  gone." 

"  Oh,  did  he  ?    Pity !    Restless,  I  expect — I  was  at  his  age." 

There  was  a  little  pause  between  them  when  Maggie  sat  very 
quietly  looking  at  her  hands.  Then,  smiling,  she  glanced  up  and 
said: 

"  But  tell  me  about  yourself,  Uncle  Mathew.  You've  told  me 
nothing." 

He  fidgeted  a  little,  shifting  his  thick  legs,  stroking  his  nose 
with  his  finger. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I've  anything  very  good  to  tell  you,  my 
dear.    Truth  is,  I  haven't  been  doing  so  very  well  lately." 
.     "  Oh,  Uncle,  I'm  sorry ! " 
j      "  It's  nothing  to  make  yourself  miserable  about,  my  dear.     I  >. 
(   always  turn  my  corners.     Damn  rocky  ones  they  are  sometimes  ) 
\  too.    Everything's  turned  itself  wrong  these  last  weeks,  either  too 
soon  or  too  late.    I  don't  complain,  all  the  same  it  makes  things 


THE  THREE  VISITS  277 

a  bit  inconvenient.  Thank  you  for  that  five  pounds  you  sent  me, 
my  dear,  very  helpful  it  was  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Do  you  want  another  five  pounds  ? "  she  asked  him.  He 
struggled  with  himself.  His  hesitation  was  so  obvious  that  it  was 
quite  touching.    She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee. 

"  Do  have  another  five  pounds,  Uncle.  It  won't  be  difficult  for 
me  at  all.  I've  been  spending  nothing  all  these  weeks  when  I've 
been  ill.    Please  do." 

He  shook  his  head  firmly. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  won't.  As  I  came  along  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Now,  you'll  be  asking  Maggie  for  money,  and  when  6he  says 
"  Yes  "  you're  not  to  take  it ' — and  so  I'm  not  going  to.  I  may 
be  a  rotter — but  I'm  not  a  rotten  rotter."  \ 

He  clung  to  his  decision  with  the  utmost  resolve  as  though  it 
were  his  last  plank  of  respectability. 

"  I  can't  believe,"  he  said  to  her  with  great  solemnity,  "  that 
things  can  really  go  wrong.  I  know  too  much.  It  isn't  men  like 
me  who  go  under.    No.    No." 

He  saw  then  her  white  face  and  strange  grey  ghostly  eyes  as 
though  her  soul  had  gone  somewhere  on  a  visit  and  the  house  was 
untenanted.  He  felt  again  the  gulp  in  his  throat.  He  bent  for- 
ward, resting  his  fat  podgy  hand  on  her  knee. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Maggie  dear.  I've  always  noticed  that 
things  are  never  bad  for  long.  You've  still  got  your  old  uncle, 
and  you're  young,  and  there  are  plenty  of  fish  in  the  sea  .  .  . 
there  are  indeed.    You  cheer  up!    It  will  be  all  right  soon." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his. 

"  Oh  I'm  not — worrying."  But  as  she  spoke  a  strange  strangled 
little  sob  had  crept  unbidden  into  her  throat,  choking  her. 

He  thought,  as  he  got  up,  "  It's  that  damned  young  feller  I  gave 
dinner  to.    I'd  like  to  wring  his  neck." 

But  he  said  no  more,  bent  closer  and  kissed  her,  said  he  was 
soon  coming  again,  and  went  away. 

After  he  had  gone  the  house  sank  into  its  grey  quiet  again. 
What  was  Maggie  thinking?  No  one  knew.  What  was  Aunt 
Anne  thinking?  No  one  knew.  .  .  .  But  there  was  something 
between  these  two,  Maggie  and  Aunt  Anne.  Every  one  felt  it 
and  longed  for  the  storm  to  burst.  Bad  enough  things  outside 
with  Mr.  Warlock  dead,  members  leaving  right  and  left,  and  the 
Chapel  generally  going  to  wrack  and  ruin,  but  inside! 

Old  Martha,  who  had  never  liked  Maggie,  felt  now  a  strange, 
uncomfortable  pity  for  her.  She  didn't  want  to  feel  pity,  no,  not 
she,  pity  for  no  one,  and  especially  not  for  an  ugly  untidy  girl 


278  THE  CAPTIVES 

like  that,  but  there  it  was,  she  couldn't  help  herself  1  Such  a 
child  that  girl,  and  she'd  been  as  nearly  dead  as  nothing,  and  now 
she  was  suffering,  suffering  awful.  .  .  .  Any  one  could  see. 
.  .  .  All  that  Warlock  boy.  Martha  had  seen  him  come  stum- 
bling down  the  stairs  that  day  and  had  heard  Maggie's  cry  and 
then  the  fall.  Awful  noise  it  made.  Awful.  She'd  stood  in  the 
hall,  looking  up  the  stairs,  her  heart  beating  like  a  hammer.  Yes, 
just  like  a  hammer !  Then  she'd  gone  up.  It  wasn't  a  nice  sight, 
the  poor  girl  all  in  a  lump  on  the  floor  and  Miss  Anne  just  as  she 
always  looked  before  one  of  her  attacks,  as  though  she  were  made 
of  grey  glass  from  top  to  toe.    .    .    . 

But  Martha  hadn't  pitied  Maggie  then.  Oh,  no.  Might  as  well 
die  as  not.  Who  wanted  her?  No  one.  Not  even  her  young  man 
apparently. 

Better  if  she  died.  But  slowly  something  happened  to  Martha. 
Not  that  she  was  sentimental.  Not  in  the  least.  But  thoughts 
would  steal  in — steal  in  just  when  you  were  at  your  work.  The 
girl  lying  there  so  good  and  patient — all  the  pots  and  pans  wink- 
ing at  you  from  the  kitchen-wall.  Must  remember  to  order  that 
ketchup — cold  last  night  in  bed — think  another  blanket  .  .  . 
yes,  very  good  and  patient.  Can't  deny  it.  Always  smiles  just 
that  same  way.  Smiles  at  every  one  except  Miss  Anne.  Won't 
smile  at  her.  Wonder  why  not?  Something  between  those  two. 
What  about  dinner?  A  little  onion  fry — that's  the  thing  these 
damp  days — Onion  fry — Onion  Fry.  ONION  FRY.  .  .  .  One 
last  look  back  before  the  world  is  filled  with  the  sense,  smell,  and 
taste  of  it. — Poor  girl,  so  white  and  so  patient — the  young 
man  will  never  come  back — never  .  .  .  never  .  .  .  ONION 
FRY. 

No;  no  one  knew  what  Maggie  was  thinking.  No  one  found  out 
until  Maggie  had  her  second  visitor,  Miss  Avies. 

When  Martha  opened  the  door  to  Miss  Avies  she  was  astonished. 
Miss  Avies  hadn't  been  near  the  house  since  old  Warlock  died. 
What  was  she  wanting  here  now,  with  her  stiff  back  and  bossy 
manner. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  see " 

"  Oh  nonsense,  it's  Maggie  Cardinal  I  want  to  see.  She's  now 
in  the  drawing-room  sitting  on  a  chair  with  a  shawl  on  by  the 
fire.    Don't  tell  me!" 

Martha  quivered  with  anger.    "  The  doctor's  orders  is " 

"I'm  going  to  be  doctor  to-day,"  she  said,  and  strode  inside. 
She  went  upstairs  and  found  Aunt  Elizabeth  sitting  with  Maggie. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Cardinal  ? " 


THE  THREE  VISITS  279 

They  shook  hands,  Miss  Avies  standing  over  Aunt  Elizabeth 
like  the  boa  constrictor  raised  above  the  mouse. 

"  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  want  to  see  your  sister. 
And  to  be  quite  honest,  I  don't  want  to  see  you  either.  It's  your 
niece  I  want  to  see.    And  alone " 

"  Certainly — it's  only  the  doctor  said- 


"  Not  to  excite  her.  I  know.  But  I'm  not  going  to  excite 
her.  I'm  going  to  give  her  some  medicine.  You  come  back  in 
half  an  hour  from  now.  Will  you?  That's  right.  Thank  you 
so  much." 

Aunt  Elizabeth,  unhappy,  uncomfortable,  filled  with  misgivings, 
as  in  these  days  she  always  was,  left  the  room. 

"  Well,  there  .  .  .  that's  right,"  said  Miss  Avies,  settling 
herself  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  from  Maggie  and  looking  at 
her  with  not  unfriendly  eyes.    "  How  are  you  ? " 

"  Oh  much  better,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie.  "  Ever  so  much 
better." 

"  No,  you're  not,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "  And  you're  only  lying 
when  you  say  you  are.  You'll  never  get  better  unless  you  do  what 
I  tell  you " 

■  What's  that? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Face  things.  Face  everything.  Have  it  all  out.  Don't  leave 
a  bit  of  it  alone,  and  then  just  keep  what's  useful." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Maggie — but  the 
faint  colour  had  faded  from  her  cheeks  and  her  hands  had  run 
together  for  protection. 

Miss  Avies's  voice  softened — "I'm  probably  going  away  very 
soon,"  she  said,  "going  away  and  not  coming  back.  All  my 
work's  over  here.  But  I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went.  You 
remember  another  talk  we  had  here?" 

"  Very  well,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You  remember  what  I  told  you  ? " 

"You  told  me  not  to  stay  here,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Miss  Avies,  "  and  I  meant  it.  The  matter 
with  you  is  that  you've  been  kept  here  all  this  time  without  any 
proper  work  to  do  and  that's  been  very  bad  for  you  and  made  you 
sit  with  your  hands  folded  in  front  of  you,  your  head  filling  with 
silly  fancies." 

Maggie  couldn't  help  smiling  at  this  description  of  herself. 

"  Oh,  you  smile,"  said  Miss  Avies  vigorously,  "  but  it's  perfectly 
true." 

"  Well,  it's  all  right  now,"  said  Maggie,  "  because  I  am  going 
away — as  soon  as  ever  I'm  well  enough." 


280  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  What  to  do  ?  "  asked  Miss  Avies. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  yet,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Well,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "  You're  going  away  to 
brood  over  that  young  man." 

Maggie  said  nothing. 

"  Oh  I  know  ...  It  seems  cruel  of  me  to  speak  of  it  just  when 
you've  had  such  a  bad  time,  but  it's  kindness  really.  If  I  don't 
force  you  to  think  it  all  out  and  face  it  properly  you'll  be  burying 
it  in  some  precious  spot  and  always  digging  it  up  to  look  at  it. 
You  face  it,  my  girl.  You  say  to  yourself — well,  he  wasn't  such 
a  wonderful  young  man  after  all.  I  can  lead  my  life  all  right 
without  him — of  course  I  can.  I'm  not  going  to  be  dependent 
on  him  and  sigh  and  groan  and  waste  away  because  I 
can't  see  him.  I  know  what  it  is.  I've  been  through  it  my- 
self." 

Then  there  was  a  pause;  then  Maggie  suddenly  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

"  But  you're  quite  wrong,  Miss  Avies.  I've  no  intention  of  not 
facing  Martin,  and  I've  no  intention  either  of  having  my  life 
ruined  because  he's  not  here.  At  first,  when  I  was  very  ill,  I  was 
unhappy,  and  then  I  saw  how  silly  I  was." 

"  Why  ? "  said  Miss  Avies  with  great  pleasure.  "  You've  got 
over  it  already !  I  must  say  I'm  delighted  because  I  never  thought 
much  of  Martin  Warlock  if  you  want  to  know,  my  dear.  I  always 
thought  him  a  weak  young  man,  and  he  wouldn't  have  done  you 
any  good.    I'm  delighted — indeed  I  am." 

"  That's  not  true  either,"  said  Maggie  quietly.  "  If  by  getting 
over  it  you  mean  that  I  don't  love  Martin  you're  quite  wrong. 
I  loved  him  the  first  moment  I  saw  him  and  I  shall  love  him  in 
just  the  same  way  until  I  die.  I  don't  think  it  matters  what  he 
does  or  where  he  is  so  far  as  loving  him  goes.  But  that  doesn't 
mean  I'm  sitting  and  pining.    I'm  not." 

Miss  Avies  looked  at  her  with  displeasure. 

"  It's  the  same  thing  then,"  she  said.  u  You  may  fancy  you're 
going  to  lead  an  ordinary  life  again,  but  all  the  time  you'll  just 
be  waiting  for  him  to  come  back." 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  shall  not.  I've  had  plenty  of  time  for 
thinking  these  last  weeks,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  his  never 
coming  back — never  at  all.  And  even  if  he  did  come  back  he 
mightn't  want  me.  So  I'm  not  going  to  waste  time  about  it.  I 
shall  find  work  and  make  myself  useful  somewhere,  but  I  shall  al- 
ways love  Martin  just  as  I  do  now." 

"  You're  very  young,"  said  Miss  Avies,  touched  in  spite  of  her- 


THE  THREE  VISITS  281 

self.     "  Later  on  you'll  find  some  one  much  better  than  young 
Warlock." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,"  said  Maggie.  "  But  what's  the  use  of  that 
if  he  isn't  Martin  ?  I've  heard  people  say  that  before — some  one's 
'  better  '  or  '  stronger '  or  '  wiser.' — But  what  has  that  got  to  do 
with  it?  I  love  Martin  because  he's  Martin.  He's  got  a  weak 
character  you  say.  That's  why  he  wants  me,  and  I  want  to  be 
wanted  more  than  anything  on  earth." 

"  Why,  child,"  said  Miss  Avies,  astonished.  "  How  you've  grown 
these  last  weeks !  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  how  I  love  Martin,"  said  Maggie,  "  so 
that  there  shall  be  no  mistake  about  it?  Well,  I  can't  tell  you. 
I  couldn't  tell  any  one.  I  don't  know  how  I  love  him,  but  I  know 
that  I  shall  never  change  or  alter  all  my  life — even  though  he 
never  comes  back  again.  I've  given  over  being  silly,"  she  went 
on.  "  There  were  days  and  days  at  first  when  I  just  wanted  to 
die.  But  now  I'm  going  to  make  my  own  life  and  have  a  good 
time — and  never  stop  loving  Martin  for  one  single  second." 

"  Supposing,"  said  Miss  Avies,  "  some  one  wanted  to  marry  you  ? 
Would  you?" 

"It  would  depend,"  said  Maggie;  "if  I  liked  him  and  he  really 
wanted  me  and  I  could  help  him  I  might.  Only,  of  course,  I'd 
tell  him  about  Martin  first." 

She  went  on  after  a  little  pause:  "You  see,  Miss  Avies,  I 
haven't  been  very  happy  with  my  aunts,  and  I  always  thought  it 
was  their  fault  that  I  wasn't.  But  during  these  weeks  when 
I've  been  lying  in  bed  I  saw  that  it  was  my  own  fault  for  being 
so  gloomy  about  everything.    Now  that  I've  got  Martin " 

"Got  him!"  interrupted  Miss  Avies;  "why,  you've  only  just 
lost  him!" 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  answered  Maggie.  "  He  didn't  go  away  be- 
cause he  hated  me  or  was  tired  of  me,  he  went  away  because  he 
didn't  want  to  do  me  any  harm,  and  I  think  he  cared  for  me  more 
just  at  that  minute  than  he'd  ever  done  before.  So  I've  nothing 
to  spoil  my  memory  of  him.  I  daresay  we  wouldn't  have  got  on 
well,  together,  I  don't  think  I  would  ever  have  fascinated  him 
enough  to  keep  him  with  me  for  very  long — but  now  I  know  that 
he  loved  me  at  the  very  moment  he  went  away  and  wasn't  think- 
ing how  ugly  I  was  or  what  a  nasty  temper  I  had  or  how  irritating 
I  could  be." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Avies,  astonished.  "  How 
can  you  say  you  loved  one  another  if  you  were  always  quarrelling 
and  expecting  to  part?" 


282  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  We  weren't  always  quarrelling,"  said  Maggie.  "  We  weren't 
together  enough,  but  if  we  had  been  it  wouldn't  have  meant  that 
we  didn't  love  one  another.  I  don't  think  we'd  ever  been  very 
happy,  but  being  happy  together  doesn't  seem  to  me  the  only 
sign  of  love.  Love  seems  to  me  to  be  moments  of  great  joy 
rising  from  every  kind  of  trouble  and  bother.  I  don't  call  tran- 
quillity happiness." 

"  Well,  you  have  thought  things  out,"  said  Miss  Avies,  "  and 
all  of  us  considering  you  so  stupid " 

u  I'm  not  going  to  squash  myself  into  a  corner  any  more,"  said 
Maggie.  "  Why  should  I  ?  I  find  I'm  as  good  as  any  one  else. 
I  made  Martin  love  me — even  though  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
So  I'm  going  to  be  shy  no  longer." 

"And  here  was  I  thinking  you  heart-broken,"  said  Miss  Avies. 

"  I'm  going  out  into  the  world,"  said  Maggie  half  to  herself. 
"I'm  going  to  have  adventures.  I've  been  in  this  house  long 
enough.  I'm  going  to  see  what  men  and  women  are  really  like 
— I  know  this  isn't  real  here.  And  I  want  to  discover  about 
leligion  too.  Since  Martin  went  away  I've  felt  that  there  was 
something  in  it.  I  can't  think  what  and  the  aunts  can't  think 
either;  none  of  you  know  here,  but  some  one  must  have  found 
out  something.    I'm  going  to  settle  what  it  all  means." 

"  You've  got  your  work  cut  out,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "  I'll  come 
and  see  you  again  one  day  soon." 

"Yes,  do,"  said  Maggie. 

When  Miss  Avies  had  gone  Maggie  realised  that  she  had  been 
talking  with  bravado — in  fact  she  hid  her  head  in  the  cushion  of 
the  chair  and  cried  for  at  least  five  minutes.  Then  she  sat  up 
and  wiped  her  eyes  because  she  heard  Aunt  Anne  coming.  When 
Aunt  Anne  came  towards  her  now  she  was  affected  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  sickness.  She  told  herself  that  that  was  part  of  her 
illness.  She  did  not  hate  Aunt  Anne.  For  some  weeks,  when  she 
had  risen  slowly  from  the  nightmare  that  the  first  period  of  her 
illness  had  been,  she  hated  Aunt  Anne,  hated  her  fiercely,  ab- 
sorbingly, desperately.  Then  suddenly  the  hatred  had  left  her, 
and  had  she  only  known  it  she  was  from  that  moment  never  to 
hate  any  one  again.  A  quite  new  love  for  Martin  was  suddenly 
born  in  her,  a  love  that  was,  as  yet,  like  the  first  faint  stirring  of 
the  child  in  the  mother's  womb.  This  new  love  was  quite  different 
from  the  old ;  that  had  been  acquisitive,  possessive,  urgent,  restless, 
and  often  terribly  painful;  this  was  tranquil,  sure,  utterly  certain, 
and  passive.  The  immediate  fruit  of  it  was  that  she  regarded 
all  human  creatures  with  a  lively  interest,  an  interest  too  absorbing 


THE  THREE  VISITS  283 

to  allow  of  hatred  or  even  active  dislike.  Her  love  for  Martin 
was  now  like  a  strong  current  in  her  soul  washing  away  all  sense 
of  irritation  and  anger.  She  regarded  people  from  a  new  angle. 
What  were  they  all  about?  What  were  they  thinking?  Had 
they  too  had  some  experience  as  marvellous  as  her  meeting  with 
and  parting  from  Martin?  Probably;  and  they  too  were  shy  of 
speaking  of  it.  Her  love  for  Martin  slowly  grew,  a  love  now  inde- 
pendent of  earthly  contact  and  earthly  desire,  a  treasure  that  would 
be  hers  so  long  as  life  lasted,  that  no  one  could  take  from  her. 

She  no  longer  hated  Aunt  Anne,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  live 
with  her  any  more.  So  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  she  would 
go.  That  moment  of  physical  contact  when  Aunt  Anne  had  held 
her  back  made  any  more  relation  between  them  impossible.  There 
was  now  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

The  loneliness,  the  sense  of  desperate  loss,  above  all  the  agonis- 
ing longing  for  Martin,  his  step,  his  voice,  his  smile — she  faced  all 
these  and  accepted  them  as  necessary  companions  now  on  her  life's 
journey,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  allow  them  to  impede  progress. 
She  wondered  now  about  everybody.  Her  own  experience  had 
shown  her  what  strange  and  wonderful  things  occur  to  all  human 
beings,  and,  in  the  face  of  this,  how  could  one  hate  or  grudge  or 
despise?     She  had  a  fellowship  now  with  all  humanity. 

But  she  was  as  ignorant  about  life  as  ever.  The  things  that 
now  she  wanted  to  know!  About  Aunt  Anne,  for  instance.  How 
had  she  been  affected  by  Mr.  Warlock's  death  and  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  expectations?  The  Chapel  now  apparently  was  to 
be  taken  over  by  Thurston,  who  had  married  Amy  Warlock  and 
was  full  of  schemes  and  enterprises.  Maggie  knew  that  the  aunts 
went  now  very  seldom  to  Chapel,  and  the  Inside  Saints  were  ap- 
parently in  pieces.  Was  Aunt  Anne  utterly  broken  by  all  this? 
She  did  not  seem  to  be  so.  She  seemed  to  be  very  much  as  she 
had  been,  except  that  she  was  in  her  room  now  a  great  deal.  Her 
health  appeared,  on  the  whole,  to  He  better  than  it  had  been. 
And  what  was  Aunt  Elizabeth  thinking?  And  Martha?  And 
Miss  Avies?    And  Caroline  Smith?    .    .    . 

No,  she  must  get  out  into  the  world  and  discover  these  things 
for  herself.  She  did  not  know  how  the  way  of  escape  would 
come,  but  she  was  certain  of  its  arrival. 

It  arrived,  and  through  her  third  visitor.  Her  third  visitor 
was  Mrs.  Mark. 

When  Katherine  Mark  came  in  Maggie  was  writing  to  Uncle 
Mathew.  She  put  aside  her  writing-pad  with  a  little  exclamation 
of  surprise.     Mrs.  Mark,  the  very  last  person  in  all  the  world 


284  THE  CAPTIVES 

whom  she  had  expected  to  see!  As  she  saw  her  come  in  she 
had  a  swift  intuition  that  this  was  Destiny  now  that  was  dealing 
with  her,  and  that  a  new  scene,  involving  every  sort  of  new 
experience  and  adventure,  was  opening  before  her.  More  than 
ever  before  she  realised  how  far  Katherine  Mark  was  from  the 
world  in  which  she,  Maggie,  had  during  all  these  months  been 
living.  Katherine  Mark  was  Real — Real  in  her  beautiful  quiet 
clothes,  in  her  assurance,  her  ease,  the  sense  that  she  gave  that 
she  knew  life  and  love  and  business  and  all  the  affairs  of  men 
at  first  hand,  not  only  seen  through  a  mist  of  superstition  and 
ignorance,  or  indeed  not  seen  at  all 

"  This  is  what  I  want,"  something  in  Maggie  called  to  her. 
"  This  will  make  me  busy  and  quiet  and  sensible — at  last " 

When  Katherine  Mark  sat  down  and  took  her  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment, smiling  at  her  in  the  kindliest  way,  Maggie  felt  as  though 
she  had  known  her  all  her  life. 

u  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  you've  come ! "  she  cried  spontaneously ; 
and  then,  as  though  she  felt  she'd  gone  too  far,  she  blushed  and 
drew  back. 

But  Katherine  held  her  hand  fast. 

"  I  wrote,"  she  said,  "  some  weeks  ago  to  you,  and  your  aunt 
answered  the  letter  saying  you  were  very  ill.  Then,  as  I  heard 
nothing  of  you,  I  was  anxious  and  came  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. You've  not  kept  your  word,  Maggie,  you  know.  We  were 
to  have  been  great  friends,  and  you've  never  been  near  me." 

At  the  use  of  her  Christian  name  Maggie  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"  I  couldn't  come,"  she  said.  "  I  didn't  want  to  until — until — 
until  some  things  had  settled  themselves." 

"  Well — and  they  have  ?  "  asked  Katherine. 

"Yes — they  have,"  said  Maggie. 

"What's  been  the  matter?"  asked  Katherine. 

"  I  was  worried  about  something,  and  then  I  was  ill,"  said 
Maggie. 

"  And  you're  not  worried  now?  "  said  Katherine. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  in  to  it,  anyway,"  said  Maggie.  "  As 
soon  as  I'm  well,  I'm  off.    I'll  find  some  work  somewhere." 

"  I've  got  a  plan,"  said  Katherine.  "  It  came  into  my  head  the 
moment  I  saw  you  sitting  there.  Will  you  come  and  stay  with  us 
for  a  little?" 

That  sense  that  Maggie  had  had  when  she  saw  Katherine  of 
fate  having  a  hand  in  all  of  this  deepened  now  and  coloured  her 
thoughts,  so  that  she  could  feel  no  surprise  but  only  a  curious 
instinct  that  she  had  been  through  all  this  scene  before. 


THE  THREE  VISITS  285 

"  Stay  with  you !  "  she  cried.    "  Oh,  I  should  love  to !  " 

"  That's  good,"  said  Katherine.  M  Your  aunts  won't  mind,  will 
they?" 

"  They  can't  keep  me,"  said  Maggie.  "  I'm  free.  But  they  won't 
want  to.    Our  time  together  is  over " 

"  I'll  come  and  fetch  you  to-morrow,"  said  Katherine.  "  You 
shall  stay  with  us  until  you're  quite  well,  and  then  we'll  find 
some  work  for  you." 

"  Why  are  you  good  to  me  like  this  ? "  Maggie  asked. 

"  I'm  not  good  to  you,"  Katherine  answered,  laughing.  "  It's 
simply  selfish.    It  will  be  lovely  for  me  having  you  with  me." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  throwing  up  her  head. 
"  No,  I  don't  think  I'll  come.  I'm  frightened.  I'm  not  what 
you  think.  I'm  untidy  and  careless  and  can't  talk  to  strangers. 
Perhaps  I'll  lose  you  altogether  as  a  friend  if  I  come." 

"  STou'll  never  do  that,"  said  Katherine,  suddenly  bending  for- 
ward and  kissing  her.  "  I  don't  change  about  people.  It's  be- 
cause I  haven't  any  imagination,  Phil  says." 

"  I  shall  make  mistakes,"  Maggie  said.  "  I've  never  been 
anywhere.    But  I  don't  care.    I  can  look  after  myself." 

The  thought  of  her  three  hundred  pounds  (which  were  no  longer 
three  hundred)  encouraged  her.    She  kissed  Katherine. 

"  I  don't  change  either,"  she  said. 

She  had  a  strange  conversation  with  Aunt  Anne  that  night, 
strange  as  every  talk  had  always  been  because  of  things  left  unsaid. 
They  faced  one  another  across  the  fireplace  like  enemies  who  might 
have  been  lovers;  there  had  been  from  the  very  first  moment  of 
this  meeting  a  romantic  link  between  them  which  had  never  been 
defined.  They  had  never  had  it  out  with  one  another,  and  they 
were  not  going  to  have  it  out  now;  but  Maggie,  who  was  never 
sentimental,  wondered  at  the  strange  mixture  of  tenderness,  pity, 
affection,  irritation  and  hostility  that  she  felt. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  I'm  going  away  to-morrow,"  said  Maggie. 

"  To-morrow !  "  Aunt  Anne  looked  up  with  her  strange  hostile 
arrogance.    "  Oh  no,  Maggie.    You're  not  well  yet." 

"  Mrs.  Mark,"  said  Maggie,  "  the  lady  I  told  you  about,  is  com- 
ing in  a  motor  to  fetch  me.  She  will  take  me  straight  to  her 
house,  and  then  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

Aunt  Anne  said  nothing. 

"  You  know  that  it's  better  for  me  to  go,"  said  Maggie.  "  We 
can't  live  together  any  more  after  what  happened.  You  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth  have  been  very  very  good  to  me,  but  you  know 


286  THE  CAPTIVES 

now  that  I'm  a  disappointment.  I  haven't  ever  fitted  into  the 
life  here.    I  never  shall." 

*  The  life  here  is  over,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "  Everything  is  over 
— the  house  is  dead.  Of  course  you  must  go.  If  you  feel  anger 
with  me  now  or  afterwards  remember  that  I  have  lost  every 
hope  or  desire  I  ever  had.  I  don't  want  your  pity.  I  want  no  one's 
pity.  I  wanted  once  your  affection,  but  I  wanted  it  on  my  own 
terms.  That  was  wrong.  I  do  not  want  your  affection  any  longer; 
you  were  never  the  girl  I  thought  you.  You're  a  strange  girl, 
Maggie,  and  you  will  have,  I  am  afraid,  a  very  unhappy  life." 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  said  Maggie.    "  I  will  have  a  happy  life." 

"  That  is  for  God  to  say,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  can  make  my  own  happiness. 
God  can't  touch  it,  if  I  don't  let  Him." 

"Maggie,  you're  blasphemous,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  but  not  in 
anger. 

"  I'm  not,"  said  Maggie.  "  When  I  came  here  first  I  didn't  be- 
lieve in  God,  but  now — I'm  not  sure.  There's  something  strange, 
which  may  be  God  for  all  I  know.  I'm  going  to  find  out.  If  He 
has  the  doing  of  everything  then  He's  taken  away  all  I  cared  for, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  give  Him  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  it 
hurt;  if  He  didn't  do  it,  then  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  You'll  believe  in  Him  before  you  die,  Maggie,"  said  Aunt 
Anne.  "  It's  in  you,  and  you  won't  escape  it.  I  thought  it  was 
I  who  was  to  bring  you  to  Him,  but  I  was  going  too  fast. 
The  Lord  has  His  own  time.  You'll  come  to  Him  after- 
wards." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Maggie.  "  I'm  so  glad  I'm  going  somewhere  where 
it  won't  be  always  religion,  where  they'll  think  of  something  else 
than  the  Lord  and  His  Coming.  I  want  real  life,  banks  and 
motor-cars  and  shops  and  clothes  and  work    ..." 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

Aunt  Anne  was  doing  what  Maggie  had  never  seen  her  do 
before,  even  in  the  worst  bouts  of  her  pain — she  was  crying  .  .  . 
cold  solitary  lonely  tears  that  crept  slowly,  reluctantly  down  her 
thin  cheeks. 

"  I  meant  to  do  well.  In  everything  I  hare  done  ill.  .  .  . 
Everything  has  failed  in  my  hands " 

Once  again,  as  long  before  at  St.  Dreot's,  Maggie  could  do 
nothing. 

There  was  a  long  miserable  silence,  then  Aunt  Anne  got  up  and 
went  away. 

Next  day  Katherine  came  in  a  beautiful  motor-car  to  fetch 


THE  THREE  VISITS  287 

Maggie.  Maggie  had  packed  her  few  things.  Round  her  neck 
next  her  skin  was  the  ring  with  three  pearls.    .   .    . 

She  said  good-bye  to  the  house :  her  bedroom  beneath  which  the 
motor-omnibuses  clanged,  the  sitting-room  with  the  family  group, 
the  passage  with  the  Armed  Men,  the  dark  hall  with  the  green 
baize  door  .  .  .  then  good-bye  to  Aunt  Elizabeth  (two  kisses), 
Aunt  Anne  (one  kiss),  Martha,  Thomas  the  cat,  the  parrot  ,  .  . 
all,  everything,  good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye! 

May  I  never  see  any  of  you  again.  Never,  never,  never, 
never!    .    .    . 

She  was  helped  into  the  car,  rugs  were  wrapped  round  her, 
there  was  a  warm  cosy  smell  of  rich  leather,  a  little  clock  ticked 
away,  a  silver  vase  with  red  and  blue  flowers  winked  at  her,  and 
Katherine  was  there  close  beside  her.    .   .    . 

Never  again,  never  again !  And  yet  how  strange,  as  they  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street  down  into  the  Strand,  Maggie  felt  a 
sudden  pang  of  regret,  of  pathos,  of  loneliness,  as  though  she 
were  leaving  something  that  had  loved  her  dearly,  and  leaving  it 
without  a  word  of  friendliness. 

"Poor  dear!"  She  wanted  to  return,  to  tell  it  ...  to  tell 
it  what?  She  had  made  her  choice.  She  was  plunging  now  into 
the  other  half  of  the  world,  and  plunging  not  quite  alone,  because 
she  was  taking  Martin  with  her. 

"  I  do  hope  you  won't  mind,  dear,"  said  Katherine.  "  My  cousin 
Paul — the  clergyman  you  met  once — is  staying  with  us.  He  and 
his  sister.     No  one  else." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  mind,"  said  Maggie.  Her  fingers,  inside  her 
blouse,  tightly  clutched  the  little  pearl  ring. 


CHAPTER  II 

PLUNGE  INTO   THE   OTHER   HALF 

FOR  a  week  Maggie  was  so  comfortable  that  she  could  think 
of  nothing  but  that.  It  must  be  remembered  that  she  had 
never  before  known  what  comfort  was,  never  at  St.  Dreot's,  never 
at  Aunt  Anne's,  and  these  two  places  had  been  the  background 
of  all  her  life. 

She  had  never  conceived  of  the  kind  of  way  that  she  now 
lived.  Her  bedroom  was  so  pretty  that  it  made  her  almost  cry 
to  look  at  it:  the  wall-paper  scattered  with  little  rosy  trees,  the 
soft  pink  cretonne  on  the  chairs,  the  old  bureau  with  a  sheet  of 
glass  covering  its  surface  that  was  her  dressing-table,  the  old  gold 
mirror — all  these  things  were  wonders  indeed.  She  was  ordered 
to  have  breakfast  in  bed;  servants  looked  after  her  with  a  kindli- 
ness and  ease  and  readiness  to  help  that  she  had  never  dreamed 
of  as  possible.  The  food  was  wonderful;  there  was  the  motor  ready 
to  take  her  for  a  drive  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was  the  whole 
house  at  her  service,  soft  and  cosy  and  ordered  so  that  it  seemed  to 
roll  along  upon  its  own  impulse  without  any  human  agency. 

"  I  believe  if  every  one  went  away  and  left  it,"  she  thought, 
"  it  would  go  on  in  exactly  the  same  way." 

Figures  gradually  took  their  places  in  front  of  this  background. 
The  principals  at  first  were  Katherine  and  Philip,  Henry  and 
Millicent,  Katherine's  brother  and  sister,  Mr.  Trenchard  senior, 
Katherine's  father,  Lady  Rachel  Seddon,  Katherine's  best  friend, 
and  Mr.  Faunder,  Katherine's  uncle.  She  saw  at  once  that  they 
all  revolved  around  Katherine;  if  Katherine  were  not  there  they 
would  not  hold  together  at  all.  They  were  all  so  different — so 
different  and  yet  so  strangely  alike.  There  was,  for  instance, 
Millicent  Trenchard,  whom  Maggie  liked  best  of  them  all  after 
Katherine.  Millie  was  a  young  woman  of  twenty-one,  pretty,  gay, 
ferociously  independent,  enthusiastic  about  one  thing  after  another, 
with  hosts  of  friends,  male  and  female,  none  of  whom  she  took  very 
seriously.  The  love  of  her  life,  she  told  Maggie  almost  at  once, 
was  Katherine.  She  would  never  love  any  one,  man  or  woman, 
so  much  again.  She  lived  with  her  mother  and  father  in  an  old 
house  in  Westminster,  and  Maggie  understood  that  there  had  been 
some  trouble   about  Katherine's  marriage,   so  that,   although  it 

288 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  289 

happened  three  years  ago,  Mrs.  Trenchard  would  not  come  to  see 
Katherine  and  would  not  allow  Katherine  to  come  and  see  hei\ 

Then  there  was  Henry,  a  very  strange  young  man.  He  waa 
at  Cambridge  and  said  to  be  very  clever.  He  did  indeed  seem 
to  lead  a  mysterious  life  of  his  own  and  paid  very  little  atten- 
tion to  Maggie,  asking  her  once  whether  she  did  not  think  The 
Golden  Ass  wonderful,  and  what  did  she  think  of  Petronius;  and 
when  Maggie  laughed  and  said  that  she  was  glad  to  say  she  never 
read  anything,  he  left  her  in  an  agitated  horror.  Lady  Rachel 
Seddon  was  very  grand  and  splendid,  and  frightened  Katherine. 
She  was  related  to  every  kind  of  duke  and  marquis,  and  although 
that  fact  did  not  impress  Maggie  in  the  least,  it  did  seem  to 
remove  Lady  Rachel  into  quite  another  world. 

But  they  were  all  in  another  world — Maggie  discovered  that 
at  once.  They  had,  of  course,  every  sort  of  catch-word  and  allusion 
and  joke  that  no  one  but  themselves  and  the  people  whom  they 
brought  into  the  house  understood;  Katherine  was  kindness  itself. 
Philip  too  (he  seemed  to  Maggie  a  weak,  amiable  young  man)  took 
a  lot  of  trouble  about  her,  but  they  did  not  belong  to  her  nor 
she  to  them. 

"  And  why  should  they  ? "  said  Maggie  to  herself.  "  I  must 
look  on  it  as  though  I  were  staying  at  a  delightful  hotel  and  were 
going  on  with  my  journey  very  soon." 

There  was  somebody,  however,  who  did  not  belong  any  more 
than  Maggie  did,  and  very  soon  he  became  Maggie's  constant  com- 
panion— this  was  the  Rev.  Paul  Trenchard,  Katherine's  cousin. 

From  the  very  moment  months  ago,  when  Maggie  and  he  had 
first  met  in  Katherine's  drawing-room,  they  had  been  friends.  He 
had  liked  her,  Maggie  felt,  at  once.  She  on  her  side  was  attracted 
by  a  certain  childlike  simplicity  and  innocence.  This  very  quality, 
she  soon  saw,  moved  the  others,  Philip  and  Henry  and  Mr.  Tren- 
chard senior,  to  derision.  They  did  not  like  the  Rev.  Paul.  They 
chaffed  him,  and  he  was  very  easily  teased,  because  he  was  not 
clever  and  did  not  see  their  jokes.  This  put  Maggie  up  in  arms 
in  his  defence  at  once.  But  they  had  all  the  layman's  distrust  of 
a  parson.  They  were  all  polite  to  him,  of  course,  and  Maggie 
discovered  that  in  this  world  politeness  was  of  the  very  first  im- 
portance, so  that  you  really  never  said  what  you  thought  nor  did 
what  you  wanted  to.  They  frankly  could  not  understand  why 
Katherine  asked  the  parson  to  stay,  but  because  they  loved  Kather- 
ine they  were  as  nice  to  him  as  their  natures  would  allow  them  to 
be.  Paul  did  not  apparently  notice  that  they  put  him  outside  their 
life.    He  was  always  genial,  laughed  a  great  deal  when  there  was 


290  THE  CAPTIVES 

no  reason  to  laugh  at  all,  and  told  simple  little  stories  in  whose 
effect  he  profoundly  believed.  He  was  supported  in  his  confi- 
dence by  his  sister  Grace,  who  obviously  adored  him.  She  too 
was  "  outside "  the  family,  but  she  seemed  to  be  quite  happy 
telling  endless  stories  of  Paul's  courage  and  cleverness  and  popu- 
larity. She  did  indeed  believe  that  Skeaton-on-Sea,  where  Paul 
had  his  living,  was  the  hub  of  the  universe,  and  this  amused  all  the 
Trenchard  family  very  much  indeed.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  Paul  and  his  sister  were  treated  unkindly.  They  were  shown 
the  greatest  courtesy  and  hospitality,  but  Maggie  knew  that  that 
was  only  because  it  was  the  Trenchard  tradition  to  do  so,  and 
not  from  motives  of  affection  or  warmth  of  heart. 

They  could  be  warm-hearted;  it  was  wonderful  to  see  the  way 
that  they  all  adored  Katherine,  and  they  had  many  friends  for 
whom  they  would  do  anything,  but  the  Rev.  Paul  seemed  to  them 
frankly  an  ass,  and  they  would  be  glad  when  he  went  away. 

He  did  not  seem  to  Maggie  an  ass.  She  thought  him  the  kindest 
person  she  had  ever  known,  kinder  even  than  Katherine,  because 
with  Katherine  there  was  the  faintest  suspicion  of  patronage; 
no,  not  of  patronage — that  was  unfair  .  .  .  but  of  an  effort 
to  put  herself  in  exactly  Maggie's  place  so  that  she  might  under- 
stand perfectly  what  were  Maggie's  motives.  With  Paul  Tren- 
chard there  was  no  effort,  no  deliberate  slipping  out  of  one  world 
into  another  one.  He  was  frankly  delighted  to  tell  Maggie  every- 
thing— all  about  Skeaton-on-Sea  and  its  delights,  about  the  church 
and  its  marvellous  east  window,  about  the  choir  and  the  difficulties 
with  the  choir-boys  and  the  necessity  for  repairing  the  organ, 
about  the  troubles  with  the  churchwardens,  especially  one  Mr. 
Bellows,  who,  in  his  cantankerous  and  dyspeptic  objections  to 
everything  that  any  one  proposed,  became  quite  a  lively  figure 
to  Maggie's  imagination,  about  the  St.  John's  Brotherhood  which 
had  been  formed  to  keep  the  "  lads  "  out  of  the  public-houses  and 
was  doing  so  well,  about  the  Shakespeare  Reading  Society  and  a 
Mrs.  Tempest  (who  also  became  a  live  figure  in  Maggie's  brain), 
"a  born  tragedian"  and  wonderful  as  Lady  Macbeth  and  Kathe- 
rine of  Aragon.  Skeaton  slowly  revealed  itself  to  Maggie  as  a 
sunny  sparkling  place,  with  glittering  sea,  shining  sand,  and  dark 
cool  woods,  full  of  kindliness,  too,  and  friendship  and  good-humour. 
Paul  and  Grace  Trenchard  seemed  to  be  the  centre  of  this  sun- 
shine. How  heartily  Paul  laughed  as  he  recounted  some  of  the 
tricks  and  escapades  of  his  "  young  scamps."  "  Dear  fellows," 
he  would  say,  "I  love  them  all  ..."  and  Grace  sat  by  smiling 
and  nodding  her  head  and  beaming  upon  her  beloved  brother. 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  291 

To  Maggie,  fresh  from  the  dark  and  confused  terrors  of  the 
Chapel,  it  was  all  marvellous.  Here  was  rest  indeed,  here,  with 
Martin  cherished  warmly  in  her  heart,  she  might  occupy  herself 
with  duties  and  interests.  Here  surely  she  would  be  useful  to 
"  somebody."  She  heard  a  good  deal  of  an  old  Mr.  Toms,  "  a 
little  queer  in  his  head,  poor  man,"  who  seemed  to  figure  in  the 
outskirts  of  Skeaton  society  as  a  warning  and  a  reassurance. 
("  No  one  in  Skeaton  thinks  of  him  in  any  way  but  tenderly.") 
Maggie  wondered  whether  he  might  not  want  looking  after.    .    .    . 

The  thought  gradually  occurred  to  her  that  this  kindly  genial 
clergyman  might  perhaps  find  her  some  work  in  Skeaton.  He 
even  himself  hinted  at  something.  .  .  .  She  might  be  some 
one's  secretary  or  housekeeper. 

About  Grace  Trenchard  Maggie  was  not  quite  so  sure.  She  was 
kindness  itself  and  liked  to  hold  Maggie's  hand  and  pat  it — 
but  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  she  was  just  a  little  bit  tire- 
some. Maggie  rebuked  herself  for  thinking  this,  but  again  and 
again  the  thought  arose.  Grace  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
wonder,  everything  amazed  her.  You  would  not  think  to  look  at 
her  flat  broad  placidity  that  she  was  a  creature  of  excitement,  and 
it  might  be  that  her  excitement  was  rather  superficial.  She  would 
say :  *  Why !  Just  fancy,  Maggie !  .  .  .  To-day's  Tuesday ! " 
Then  you  wondered  what  was  coming  next  and  nothing  came  at 
all.  She  had  endless  stories  about  her  adventures  in  the  streets  of 
London,  and  these  stories  were  endless  because  of  all  the  details 
that  must  be  fitted  in,  and  then  the  details  slipped  out  of  her 
grasp  and  winked  at  her  maliciously  as  they  disappeared.  The  fact 
was  perhaps  that  she  was  not  very  clever,  but  then  Maggie  wasn't 
very  clever  either,  so  she  had  no  right  to  criticise  Miss  Trenchard, 
who  was  really  as  amiable  as  she  could  be.  Henry  Trenchard  said 
once  to  Maggie  in  his  usual  scornful  way: 

"Oh,  Grace!  .  .  .  She's  the  stupidest  woman  in  Skeaton, 
which  means  the  stupidest  woman  in  the  world." 

The  Trenchards,  Maggie  thought,  were  rather  given  to  scorn- 
ing every  one  save  themselves.  Even  Philip,  who  was  not  a  Tren- 
chard, had  caught  the  habit.  Katherine,  of  course,  despised  no 
one  and  liked  every  one,  but  that  was  rather  tiresome  too. 

In  fact  at  the  end  of  her  first  week  Maggie  thought  that  as  soon 
as  possible  she  would  find  a  room  for  herself  somewhere  and  start 
to  earn  her  living.  She  discovered  that  she  was  developing  a  new 
sensitiveness.  When  she  was  living  with  the  aunts  she  had  not 
minded  very  seriously  the  criticisms  made  upon  her;  she  had  in- 
deed been  disappointed  when  Aunt  Anne  had  not  admired  her 


292  THE  CAPTIVES 

new  dress,  and  she  had  hated  Amy  Warlock's  rudeness,  but  that  was 
because  Martin  had  been  involved.  This  new  sensitiveness  worried 
her;  she  hated  to  care  whether  people  laughed  at  the  way  she  came 
into  a  room  or  whether  she  expressed  foolish  opinions  about  books 
and  pictures.  She  had  always  said  just  what  she  thought,  but 
now,  before  Philip's  kindly  attention  and  Mr.  Trenchard  senior's 
indulgence  (he  wrote  books  and  articles  in  the  papers),  she  hated 
her  ignorance.  Paul  Trenchard  knew  frankly  nothing  about  Art. 
*  I  know  what  I  like,"  he  said,  "  and  that's  enough  for  me."  He 
liked  Watts's  pictures  and  In  Memoriam  and  Dickens,  and  he  heard 
The  Messiah  once  a  year  in  London  if  he  could  leave  his  parish 
work.  He  laughed  about  it  all.  "  The  souls  of  men !  The  souls 
of  men !  "  he  would  say.  "  That  is  what  I'm  after,  Miss  Cardinal. 
You're  not  going  to  catch  them  with  the  latest  neurotic  novel,  how- 
ever well  it's  written." 

Oh,  he  was  kind  to  her!  He  was  kinder  and  kinder  and  kinder. 
She  told  him  everything — except  about  Martin.  She  told  him  all 
about  her  life  at  St.  Dreot's  and  her  father  and  Uncle  Mathew, 
the  aunts  and  the  Chapel. 

He  was  frankly  shocked  by  the  Chapel.  "  That's  not  the  way 
to  get  into  heaven,"  he  said.  "  We  must  be  more  patient  than 
that.    The  daily  round,  the  daily  task,  that's  the  kind." 

His  physical  presence  began  to  pervade  all  her  doings.  He  was 
not  handsome,  but  so  clean,  so  rosy,  and  so  strong.  No  mystery 
abotft  him,  no  terrors,  no  invasions  from  the  devil.  Everything 
was  clear  and  certain.  He  knew  just  where  he  was  and  exactly 
whither  he  was  going.  One  afternoon,  when  they  were  out  in  the 
motor  together,  he  took  Maggie's  hand  under  the  rug  and  he  held 
it  so  calmly,  so  firmly,  with  so  kindly  a  benevolence  that  she  could 
not  be  frightened  or  uncomfortable.  He  was  like  a  large  friendly 
brother.    .    .    . 

One  day  he  called  her  Maggie.  He  blushed  and  laughed.  "  I'm 
so  sorry,"  he  said.    "  It  slipped  out.    I  caught  it  from  Katherine." 

"  Oh,  please,  .  .  .  never  mind,"  she  answered.  "  Miss  Cardi- 
nal's so  stiff." 

"  Then  you  must  call  me  Paul,"  he  said. 

A  little  conversation  that  Maggie  had  after  this  with  Millicent 
showed  her  in  sharp  relief  exactly  where  she  stood  in  relation  to 
the  Trenchard  family.  They  had  been  out  in  the  motor  together. 
Millie  had  been  shopping  and  now  they  were  rolling  back  through 
the  Park. 

"  Are  you  happy  with  us,  Maggie  ?  "  Millicent  suddenly  asked. 

"  Very  happy,"  Maggie  answered. 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  293 

"Well,  I  hope  you  are,"  said  Millicent.  "I  don't  think  that 
as  a  family  we're  very  good  at  making  any  one  happy  except  our- 
selves.   I  think  we're  very  selfish." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you're  selfish,"  said  Maggie,  "  but  I  think 
you're  sufficient  for  yourselves.  I  don't  fancy  you  really  want  any 
one  from  outside." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  the  others  do.  I  do  though.  You  don't  sup- 
pose I'm  going  to  stay  in  the  Trenchard  bosom  for  ever,  do  you? 
I'm  not,  I  assure  you.  But  what  you've  said  means  that  you  don't 
really  feel  at  home  with  us." 

■  I  don't  think  I  want  to  feel  at  home  with  you,"  Maggie 
answered.  "  I  don't  belong  to  any  of  you.  Contrast  us,  for 
instance.  You've  got  everything — good  looks,  money,  cleverness, 
position.  You  can  get  what  you  like  out  of  life.  I've  got  nothing. 
I'm  plain,  poor,  awkward,  uneducated — and  yet  you  know  I 
wouldn't  change  places  with  any  one.  I'd  rather  be  myself  than 
any  one  alive." 

"  Yes,  you  would,"  said  Millicent,  nodding  her  head.  "  That's 
you  all  over.  I  felt  it  the  moment  you  came  into  the  house.  You're 
adventurous.  We're  not.  Katherine  was  adventurous  for  a  mo- 
ment when  she  married  Philip,  but  she  soon  slipped  back  again. 
But  you'll  do  just  what  you  want  to  always." 

u  I  shall  have  to,"  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "  There's  no  one 
else  to  do  it  for  me.  It  isn't  only  that  I  don't  belong  to  you — 
I've  never  belonged  to  any  one,  only  one  person — and  he's  gone 
now.    I  belong  to  him — and  he'll  never  come  back." 

"Were  you  frightfully  in  love?"  asked  Millie,  deeply  interested. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie. 

"  He  oughtn't  to  have  gone  away  like  that,"  said  Millicent. 

"  Yes,  he  ought,"  said  Maggie.  "  He  was  quite  right.  But  don't 
let's  bother  about  that.  I've  got  to  find  some  place  now  where  I 
can  work.  The  worst  of  it  is  I'm  so  ignorant.  But  there  must  be 
something  that  I  can  do." 

"  There's  Paul,"  said  Millie. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  he  cares  like  anything  for  you.  You  must  have  noticed. 
It  began  after  the  first  time  he  met  you.  He  was  always  asking 
about  you.    Of  course  every  one's  noticed  it." 

"  Cares  for  me."  Maggie  repeated. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  He's  wanted  to  marry  for  a  long  time.  Tired 
of  Grace  bossing  him,  I  expect.  That  doesn't  sound  very  polite 
to  you,  but  I  know  that  he  cares  for  you  apart  from  that — for 
yourself,  I  mean.    And  I  expect  Grace  is  tired  of  housekeeping." 


294  THE  CAPTIVES 

Maggie's  feelings  were  very  strange.  Why  should  he  care  about 
her?  Did  she  want  him  to  care?  A  strange  friendly  feeling 
stole  about  her  heart.  She  was  not  alone  then,  after  all.  Some 
one  wanted  her,  wanted  her  so  obviously  that  every  one  had  no- 
ticed it — did  not  want  her  as  Martin  had  wanted  her,  against  his 
own  will  and  judgment.  If  he  did  offer  her  his  home  what  would 
she  feel? 

There  was  rest  there,  rest  and  a  real  home,  a  home  that  she  had 
never  in  all  her  life  known.  Of  course  she  did  not  love  him  in 
the  least.  His  approach  did  not  make  her  pulses  beat  a  moment 
faster,  she  did  not  long  for  him  to  come  when  he  was  not  there 
— but  he  wanted  her !    That  was  the  great  thing.    He  wanted  her  I 

"  Of  course  if  he  asked  you,  you  wouldn't  really  think  of  marry- 
ing him  ? "  said  Millicent. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie  slowly. 

"  What !  Marry  him  and  live  in  Skeaton ! "  Millicent  was 
frankly  amazed.  "  Why,  Skeaton's  awful,  and  the  people  in  it  are 
awful,  and  Grace  is  awful.  In  the  summer  it's  all  nigger-minstrels 
and  bathing-tents,  and  in  the  winter  there  isn't  a  soul "  Milli- 
cent shivered. 

Maggie  smiled.  "  Of  course  it  seems  dull  to  you,  but  my  life's 
been  very  different.  It  hasn't  been  very  exciting,  and  if  I  could 
really  help  him — "  she  broke  off.  "  I  do  like  him,"  she  said.  "  He's 
the  kindest  man  I've  ever  met.  Of  course  he  seems  dull  to  you  who 
have  met  all  kinds  of  brilliant  people.    I  hate  brilliant  people." 

The  car  was  in  Bryanston  Square.  Just  before  it  stopped  Millie 
bent  over  and  kissed  Maggie. 

"  I  think  you're  a  darling,"  she  said. 

But  Millie  didn't  think  Maggie  "  a  darling  "  for  long — that  is, 
she  did  not  think  about  her  at  all  for  long;  none  of  the  family  did. 

So  quiet  was  Maggie,  so  little  in  any  one's  way  that,  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight,  she  made  no  difference  to  any  one  in  the  house. 
She  was  much  better  now,  looking  a  different  person,  colour  in  her 
cheeks  and  light  in  her  eyes.  During  her  illness  they  had  cut  her 
hair  and  this  made  her  look  more  than  ever  like  a  boy.  She  wore 
her  plain  dark  dresses,  black  and  dark  blue;  they  never  quite 
fitted  and,  with  her  queer  odd  face,  her  high  forehead,  rather  awk- 
ward mouth,  and  grave  questioning  eyes  she  gave  you  the  impres- 
sion that  she  had  been  hurried  into  some  disguise  and  was  wear- 
ing it  with  discomfort  but  amusement.  Some  one  who  met  her 
at  the  Trenchards  at  this  time  said  of  her:  "  What  a  funny  girl! 
She's  like  a  schoolboy  dressed  up  to  play  a  part  in  the  school 
speeches."    Of  course  she  was  not  playing  a  part,  no  one  could  have 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  295 

been  more  entirely  natural  and  honest,  but  she  was  odd,  strange, 
out  of  her  own  world,  and  every  one  felt  it. 

It  was,  perhaps,  this  strangeness  that  attracted  Paul  Trenchard. 
He  was,  above  everything,  a  kindly  man — kindly,  perhaps  a  little 
through  laziness,  but  nevertheless  moved  always  by  distress  or 
misfortune  in  others.  Maggie  was  not  distressed — she  was  quite 
cheerful  and  entirely  unsentimental — nevertheless  she  had  been 
very  ill,  was  almost  penniless,  had  had  some  private  trouble,  was 
an  orphan,  had  no  friends  save  two  old  aunts,  and  was  amazingly 
ignorant  of  the  world. 

This  last  was,  perhaps,  the  thing  that  struck  him  most  of  all. 
He,  too,  was  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  he  didn't  know  that,  and  he 
was  amazed  at  the  things  that  Maggie  brushed  aside  as  un- 
important. He  found  that  he  was  beginning  to  think  of  her  as 
"  my  little  heathen."  His  attitude  was  the  same  as  that  of  a 
good  missionary  discovering  a  naked  but  trusting  native. 

The  thought  of  training  this  virgin  mind  was  delightful  to 
him. 

He  liked  her  quaintness,  and  one  day  suddenly,  to  his  own 
surprise,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  he  kissed  her, 
a  most  chaste  kiss,  gently  on  the  forehead. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child "  he  said  in  a  kind  of  dismay. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  complete  confidence.  So  gentle  a 
kiss  had  it  been  that  it  had  been  no  more  than  a  pressure  of  the 
hand. 

A  few  days  later  Katherine  spoke  to  her.  She  came  up  to  her 
bedroom  just  as  Maggie  was  beginning  to  undress.  Maggie  stood 
in  front  of  the  glass,  her  evening  frock  off,  brushing  her  short 
thick  hair  before  the  glass. 

"Have  you  made  any  plans  yet,  dear?"  asked  Katherine. 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said.    "  Not  yet." 

Katherine  hesitated. 

"  I've  got  a  confession  to  make,"  she  said  at  last. 

Maggie  turned  to  look  at  her  with  her  large  childish  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  you've  done  something  wrong,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing, "  something  really  bad  that  I  should  have  to  '  overlook.' " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Katherine. 

Maggie  only  said :  "  We'd  be  more  on  a  level  then." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  anything  very  bad.  But  the  truth  is,  Maggie, 
that  I  didn't  ask  you  here  only  for  my  own  pleasure  and  to  make 
you  well.     There  was  a  third  reason." 

"I  know,"  said  Maggie;  "Paul." 


296  THE  CAPTIVES 

"My  dear!"  said  Katherine,  amazed.  "How  did  you  guess? 
I  never  should  have  done." 

"  Paul's  asked  you  to  find  out  whether  I  like  him,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,"  said  Katherine. 

"  Well,  I  do  like  him,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Don't  think  that  I've  been  unfair,"  said  Katherine.  They 
were  sitting  now  side  by  side  on  Maggie's  bed  and  Katherine's 
hand  was  on  Maggie's  knee.  "  I'll  tell  you  exactly  how  it  hap- 
pened. Paul  was  interested  in  you  from  the  moment  that  he  saw 
you  at  my  house  ever  so  long  ago.  He  asked  ever  so  many  ques- 
tions about  you,  and  the  next  time  he  stayed  he  wanted  me  to 
■write  and  ask  you  to  come  and  stay.  Well,  I  didn't.  I  knew  from 
what  you  told  me  that  you  cared  for  somebody  else,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  get  Paul  really  fond  of  you  if  it  was  going  to  be  no  good. 
You  see,  I've  known  Paul  for  ages.  He's  nearly  ten  years  older 
than  I,  but  he  used  to  come  and  stay  with  us  at  Garth,  when  he 
was  at  Cambridge  and  before  he  was  a  clergyman. 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  him.  I  know  the  others  think  he's  stupid 
simply  because  he  doesn't  know  the  things  that  they  do,  but  he's 
.good  and  kind  and  honest,  and  just  exactly  what  he  seems  to 
be." 

"I  like  him,"  repeated  Maggie,  nodding  her  head. 

"  He's  been  wanting  to  be  married,"  went  on  Katherine,  "  for 
some  time.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything  so  that  I  shall  have 
been  perfectly  fair.  Grace  wants  him  to  be  married  too.  All  her 
life  she's  looked  after  him  and  he's  always  done  exactly  what  she 
told  him.  He's  rather  lazy  and  it's  not  hard  for  some  one  to  get 
an  influence  over  him.  Well,  she's  not  really  a  very  good  manager. 
She  thinks  she  is,  but  she  isn't.  She  arranges  things  and  wants 
things  to  stay  just  where  she  puts  them,  but  she  arranges  all  the 
wrong  unnecessary  things.  Still,  it's  easy  to  criticise,  and  I'm  not 
a  very  good  manager  myself.  I  think  she's  growing  rather  tired  of 
it  and  would  like  some  one  to  take  it  off  her  hands.  Of  course 
Paul  must  marry  the  right  person,  some  one  whom  she  can  control 
and  manage,  and  some  one  who  won't  transplant  her  in  Paul's 
affection.  That's  her  idea.  But  it's  all  nonsense,  of  course.  You 
can't  have  your  cake  and  eat  it.  She  simply  doesn't  understand 
what  marriage  is  like.  When  Paul  marries  she'll  learn  more  about 
life  in  a  month  than  she's  learnt  in  all  her  days.  Well,  Maggie, 
dear,  she  thinks  you're  just  the  girl  for  Paul.  She  thinks  she  can 
■do  what  she  likes  with  you.  She  thinks  you're  nice,  of  course, 
but  she's  going  to  '  form '  you  and  '  train '  you.  You  needn't 
worry   about  that,  you  needn't  really,  if  you  care  about  Paul. 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  297 

You'd  manage  both  of  them  in  a  week.  But  there  it  is — I  thought 
I  ought  to  warn  you  about  Grace. 

"  As  to  Paul,  I  believe  you'd  be  happy.  You'd  have  your  home 
and  your  life  and  your  friends.  Skeaton  isn't  60  bad  if  you  live 
in  it,  I  believe,  and  Paul  could  get  another  living  if  you  weren't 
happy  there." 

Did  Katherine  have  any  scruples  as  she  pursued  her  argu- 
ment? A  real  glance  at  Maggie's  confiding  trustful  gaze  might 
have  shaken  her  resolve.  This  child  who  knew  so  little  about 
anything — was  Skeaton  the  world  for  her?  But  Katherine  had  so 
many  philanthropies  that  she  was  given  to  finishing  one  off  a  little 
abruptly  in  order  to  make  ready  for  the  next  one. 

She  was  interested  just  now  in  a  scheme  for  adopting  illegiti- 
mate babies.  She  thought  Maggie  an  "  angel "  and  she  just  longed 
for  her  to  be  happy.  Nevertheless  Maggie  was  very  ignorant,  and 
it  was  a  little  difficult  to  see  what  trade  or  occupation  she  would 
be  able  to  adopt.  She  was  nearly  well  now  and  Katherine  did  not 
know  quite  what  to  do  with  her.  Here  was  an  admirable  marriage, 
something  that  would  give  a  home  and  children  and  friends.  What 
could  be  better?  She  had  ju6t  passed  apparently  through  a  love 
affair  that  could  have  led  to  no  possible  good — solve  the  difficulty, 
make  Maggie  safe  for  life,  and  pass  on  to  the  illegitimate  babies! 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  love  him,"  said  Maggie,  staring  in  front 
of  her. 

"  But  you  like  him,"  said  Katherine.  "  It  isn't  as  though  Paul 
were  a  very  young  man.  He  wouldn't  expect  anything  very 
romantic.    He  isn't  really  a  romantic  man  himself." 

"  And  I  shall  always  love  Martin,"  pursued  Maggie. 

Katherine's  own  romance  had  fulfilled  itself  so  thoroughly  that 
it  had  almost  ceased  to  be  romantic.  The  Trenchard  blood  in 
her  made  her  a  little  impatient  of  unfulfilled  romances. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Maggie,  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "  that  it  would 
be  better  to  forget  him  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Maggie,  moving  away  from  Katherine. 
"  And  I  should  have  to  tell  Paul  about  him.  I'd  tell  Paul  the 
exact  truth,  that  if  I  married  him  it  was  because  I  liked  him 
and  I  thought  we'd  be  good  friends.  I  see  quite  clearly  that 
I  can't  sit  for  ever  waiting  for  Martin  to  come  back,  and  the 
sooner  I  settle  to  something  the  better.  If  Paul  wants  a  friend 
I  can  be  one,  but  I  should  never  love  him — even  though  Martin 
wasn't  there.  And  as  to  the  managing,  I'm  dreadfully  careless 
and  forgetful." 

"  You'd  soon  leam,"  said  Katherine. 


298  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  ?  "  asked  Maggie.  "  I  don't  know,  I'm 
sure.  As  to  Grace,  I  think  we'd  get  on  all  right.  There's  a  greater 
difficulty  than  that  though." 

"  What  ? "  asked  Katherine  as  Maggie  hesitated. 

"  Religion,"  said  Maggie.  "  Paul's  a  clergyman  and  I  don't 
believe  in  his  religion  at  all.  Two  months  ago  I'd  have  said  I 
hated  all  religion — and  so  would  you  if  you'd  had  a  time  like 
me.  But  since  Martin's  gone  I'm  not  so  sure.  There's  some- 
thing I  want  to  find  out.  .  .  .  But  Paul's  found  out  every- 
thing. He's  quite  sure  and  certain.  I'd  have  to  tell  him  I  don't 
believe  in  any  of  his  faith." 

"  Tell  him,  of  course,"  said  Katherine.  "  I  think  he  knows  that 
already.  He's  going  to  convert  you.  He  looks  forward  to  it. 
If  he  hadn't  been  so  lazy  he'd  have  been  a  missionary." 

"  Tell  me  about  Skeaton,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I've  only  been  there  once,"  said  Katherine.  "  Frankly,  I 
didn't  like  it  very  much,  but  then  I'm  so  used  to  the  Glebeshire 
sea  that  it  all  seemed  rather  tame.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
sand  blowing  about  the  day  I  was  there,  but  Paul's  house  is 
nice  with  a  garden  and  a  croquet-lawn,  and — and — Oh!  very  nice, 
and  nice  people  next  door  I  believe." 

"  I'm  glad  it's  not  like  Glebeshire,"  said  Maggie.  "  That's  a 
point  in  its  favour.  I  want  to  be  somewhere  where  everything  is 
quiet  and  orderly,  and  every  one  knows  their  own  mind  and  all  the 
bells  ring  at  the  right  time  and  no  one's  strange  or  queer,  and — 
most  of  all — where  no  one's  afraid  of  anything.  All  my  life  I've 
been  with  people  who  were  afraid  and  I've  been  afraid  myself. 
Now  Paul  and  Grace  are  not  afraid  of  anything." 

■  No,  they're  not,"  said  Katherine,  laughing. 

Suddenly  Maggie  broke  out: 

"  Katherine !  Tell  me  truly.  Does  Paul  want  me,  does  he 
need  me  ?    Does  he  indeed  ? " 

The  storm  of  appeal  in  Maggie's  voice  made  Katherine  suddenly 
shy;  there  was  a  hint  at  loneliness  and  desolation  there  that  was 
something  beyond  her  reach.  She  wanted  to  help.  She  was  sud- 
denly frightened  at  her  urging  of  Paul's  suit.  Something  seemed 
to  say  to  her :  "  Leave  this  alone.  Don't  take  the  responsibility 
of  this.    You  don't  understand.     .     .     ." 

But  another  voice  said :  "  Poor  child  ...  all  alone,  penni- 
less, without  a  friend.  What  a  chance  for  her!  Paul  such  a  kind 
man." 

So  she  kissed  Maggie,  and  said:  "He  wants  you  dreadfully, 
Maggie  dear." 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  299 

Maggie's  cheeks  flushed. 

"  That's  nice,"  she  sai3  in  her  most  ordinary  voice.  "  Because 
no  one  ever  has  before,  you  know." 

Paul's  proposal  came  the  very  next  day.  It  came  after  luncheon 
in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room. 

Maggie  knew  quite  well  that  it  was  coming.  She  was  lying  in 
a  long  chair  near  the  fire,  a  shawl  over  her  knees.  It  was  a 
blustering  day  at  the  end  of  February.  The  windows  rattled, 
and  the  wind  rushing  down  the  chimney  blew  the  flame  into  little 
flags  and  pennants  of  colour. 

Paul  came  and  stood  by  the  fire,  warming  his  hands,  his  legs 
spread  out.  Maggie  looked  at  him  with  a  long  comprehensive 
glance  that  took  him  in  from  head  to  foot.  She  seemed  to  know 
then  that  she  was  going  to  marry  him.  A  voice  seemed  to  say 
to  her :  "  Look  at  him  well.  This  is  the  man  you're  going  to  live 
with.    You'd  better  realise  him." 

She  did  realise  him;  his  white  hair,  his  rosy  cheeks,  his  boyish 
nose  and  mouth  and  rounded  chin,  his  broad  chest,  thick  long  legs 
and  large  white  hands — soft  perhaps,  but  warm  and  comfortable 
and  safe.  Maggie  could  think  of  little  else  as  she  looked  at  him 
but  of  how  nice  it  would  be  to  lay  her  head  back  on  that 
broad  chest,  feel  his  arms  around  her,  and  forget — forget — for- 
get! 

That  was  what  she  needed — forgetfulness  and  work.     . 
She  did  not  love  him — no,  not  one  little  atom.     She  had  never 
felt  less  excitement  about  anybody,  but  she  liked  him,  respected 
him,  and  trusted  him.    And  he  wanted  her,  wanted  her  desperately, 
Katherine  had  said,  that  was  the  chief  thing  of  all. 

"  Maggie !  "  he  said  suddenly,  turning  round  to  her.  "  Would 
you  ever  think  of  marrying  me?" 

She  liked  that  directness  and  simplicity,  characteristic  of  him. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  be  much  of  a  success,  Paul,"  she  said. 

He  saw  at  once  from  that  that  she  did  not  intend  instantly 
to  refuse  him.  His  rosy  cheeks  took  on  an  added  tinge  of  colour 
and  he  caught  a  chair,  drew  it  up  to  her  long  one  and  sat  down, 
bending  eagerly  towards  her. 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  think  of  it,"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head. 
"  And  for  very  good  reasons.  For  one  thing  I'm  not  in  love 
with  you.  for  another  I'm  not  religious,  and  for  a  third  I'm  so 
careless  that  I'd  never  do  for  your  wife." 

"  Of  course  I  knew  about  the  first,"  he  said  eagerly.    "  I  knew 


300  THE  CAPTIVES 

you  didn't  love  me,  but  that  will  come,  Maggie.  It  must 
come.     .     .     ." 

Maggie  shook  her  head.  "  I  love  some  one  else,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  always  will.  But  he's  gone  away  and  will  never  come 
back.    I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.    But  if  he  did  come  back 

and   wanted  me   I  couldn't  promise   that   I  wouldn't "     She 

broke  off.       "  You  can  see  that  it  wouldn't  do." 

"  No,  I  can't  see,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "  I  can  see  that 
you  like  me,  Maggie.  I  can  see  that  we're  splendid  friends.  If 
your  other — friend — has  left  you  altogether,  then — well,  time 
makes  a  great  difference  in  those  things.  I  think  after  we'd  been 
together  a  little — Oh,  Maggie,  do ! "  he  broke  off  just  like  a  boy. 
"  Do !  We  suit  each  other  so  well  that  we  must  be  happy,  and 
then  Grace  likes  you — she  likes  you  very  much.    She  does  indeed." 

"  Let's  leave  Grace  out  of  this,"  Maggie  said  firmly.  "  It's 
between  you  and  me,  Paul.  It's  nobody  else's  affair.  What 
about  the  other  two  objections?  I  don't  believe  in  your  faith  at 
all,  and  I'm  unpunctual  and  forgetful,  and  break  things." 

Strangely  she  was  wanting  him  urgently  now  to  reassure  her. 
She  realised  that  if  now  he  withdrew  she  would  be  faced  with  a 
loneliness  more  terrible  than  anything  that  she  had  known  since 
Martin  had  left  her.  The  warm  pressure  of  his  hand  about  hers 
reassured  her. 

"  Maggie  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "  I  love  you  better  because  you're 
young  and  unformed.  I  can  help  you,  dear,  and  you  can  help 
me,  of  course;  I'm  a  dreadful  old  buffer  in  many  ways.  I'm  forty, 
you  know,  and  you're  such  a  child.    How  old  are  you,  Maggie  ? " 

"  Twenty,"  she  said. 

"  Twenty !  Fancy !  And  you  can  like  an  old  parson — well, 
well.  ...  If  you  care  for  me  nothing  else  matters.  God  will 
see  to  the  rest." 

"  I  don't  like  leaving  things  to  other  people,"  Maggie  said  slowly. 
"Now  I  suppose  I've  shocked  you.  But  there  you  are;  I  shall 
always  be  shocking  you." 

"  Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  shock  me,"  he  answered  firmly. 
"Do  you  know  that  that's  part  of  the  charm  you  have  for  me, 
you  dear  little  wild  thing?  If  you  will  come  and  live  with  me 
perhaps  you  will  see  how  God  works,  how  mysterious  are  His  ways, 
and  what  He  means  to  do  for  you " 

Maggie  shivered :  "  Oh,  now  you're  talking  like  Aunt  Anne. 
I  don't  want  to  feel  that  I'm  something  that  some  one  can  do 
what  he  likes  with.    I'm  not." 

"  No.     I  know  you're  not,"  Paul  answered  eagerly.     "  You're 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  301 


very  independent.    I  admire  that  in  you — and  so  does  Grace " 

"Would  Grace  like  us  to  marry?"  asked  Maggie. 

"  It's  the  desire  of  her  heart,"  said  Paul. 

"  But  how  can  you  want  to  marry  me  when  you  know  I  don't 

love  you  ? " 

r"  Love's  a  strange  thing.  Companionship  can  make  great 
changes.  You  like  me.  That  is  enough  for  the  present.  I  can 
be  patient.    I'm  not  an  impetuous  man." 

He  was  certainly  not.  He  was  just  a  large  warm  comfortable 
creature  far,  far  from  the  terrified  and  strangely  travelled  soul 
of  Martin.  .  .  .  Insensibly,  hardly  realising  what  she  did, 
Maggie  was  drawn  towards  Paul.  He  drew  close  to  her,  moved 
on  to  the  sofa,  and  then  with  one  arm  about  her  let  her  head 
rest  against  his  chest.  Maggie  could  neither  move  nor  speak. 
She  only  felt  a  warm  comfort,  an  intense  desire  for  rest. 

Very,  very  gently  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  forehead.  The 
clock  ticked  on.  The  flames  of  the  fire  spurted  and  fell.  Maggie's 
eyes  closed,  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  soon,  her  cheek  against  his 
waistcoat,  like  a  little  child,  was  fast  asleep. 

The  engagement  was  a  settled  thing.  Every  one  in  the  house 
was  relieved.  Maggie  herself  felt  as  though  she  had  found  lights 
and  safety,  running  from  a  wood  full  of  loneliness  and  terror. 
She  was  sharp  enough  to  see  how  relieved  they  all  were  that  she 
was  '  settled.'  They  were  true  kindly  people,  and  now  they  were 
more  kind  to  her  than  ever:  that  showed  that  they  had  been 
uneasy  about  her.     She  was  f  off  their  hands  now.' 

Maggie,  when  she  saw  this  in  the  faces  of  Philip  and  Mr. 
Trenchard,  and  even  of  Millicent,  was  glad  that  she  was  engaged. 
She  was  somebody's  now;  she  had  friends  and  a  home  and  work 
now,  and  she  would  banish  all  that  other  world  for  ever.  For 
ever?  .  .  .  How  curious  it  was  that  from  the  moment  of  her 
engagement  her  aunts,  their  house,  the  Chapel,  and  the  people 
around  it  began  to  press  upon  her  attention  with  a  pathos  and 
sentiment  that  she  had  never  felt  before.  She  went  to  see  the 
aunts,  of  course,  and  sat  in  the  old  drawing-room  for  half-an-hour, 
and  they  were  kind  and  distant.  They  were  glad  that  she  was  to 
be  married;  they  hoped  that  she  would  be  happy.  Aunt  Anne 
looked  very  ill,  and  there  was  a  terrible  air  of  desertion  about 
the  house  as  though  all  the  life  had  gone  out  of  it.  Maggie  came 
away  very  miserable.  Then  she  said  to  herself :  u  Now,  look  here. 
You're  in  a  new  house  now.  You've  got  to  think  of  nothing  but 
that — nothing,  nothing,  nothing.     .      .      ." 

She  meant  Martin.     She  might  think  of  Martin   (how  indeed 


302  THE  CAPTIVES 

could  she  help  it?)  but  she  was  not  to  long  for  him.  No, 
no     .  not  to  long  for  him.     She  did  wish  that  she  could 

go  to  sleep  more  quickly  when  she  went  to  bed. 

Paul  and  Grace  were  very  kind  to  her.  Paul  was  just  the 
big  elder  brother  that  she  loved  him  to  be.  No  more  sentiment 
than  that.  A  kiss  morning,  a  kiss  evening,  that  was  all.  Grace 
behaved  to  them  both  with  a  motherly  indulgence.  Maggie  saw 
that  she  considered  that  she  had  arranged  the  whole  affair.  There 
were  signs  that  she  intended  to  arrange  everything  for  Maggie. 
Well,  it  was  rather  pleasant  just  now  to  have  things  arranged 
for  you.  Maggie  had  only  one  wish — that  Grace  would  not  take 
so  long  to  explain  everything.  Maggie  always  ran  ahead  of  her 
long  before  she  had  finished  her  involved  sentences  and  then  had 
to  curb  her  impatience.  However  one  would  get  used  to  Grace; 
one  would  have  to  because  she  was  going  to  live  with  them  after 
they  were  married.  Maggie  had  hoped  that  it  would  be  otherwise, 
but  it  was  at  once  obvious  that  neither  Paul  nor  Grace  dreamt 
of  being  separated. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  as  soon  as  possible,  and  very,  very 
quiet.  In  a  little  church  close  by,  no  bridesmaids,  everything 
very  simple.  Maggie  was  glad  of  that.  She  would  have  hated 
a  church  full  of  staring  people.  She  enjoyed  immensely  buying 
her  trousseau.  Paul  was  very  generous  with  his  money;  it  was 
evident  that  Grace  thought  him  too  generous.  Maggie  and 
Katherine  went  together  to  buy  things,  and  Katherine  was  a 
darling.  Maggie  fancied  that  Katherine  was  not  quite  easy  in 
her  mind  about  her  share  in  the  affair. 

"  You  won't  expect  Skeaton  to  be  wildly  exciting,  Maggie  dear, 
will  you  ? "  she  said.  "  You'll  find  plenty  to  do  and  there  are  lots 
of  nice  people,  I'm  sure,  and  you'll  come  up  and  stay  with  us 
here." 

w  I  think  it  sounds  delightful,"  said  Maggie.  "  If  you'd  lived 
for  years  in  St.  Dreot's,  Katherine,  you  wouldn't  talk  about  other 
places  being  dull.    It  isn't  excitement  I  want.    It's  work." 

"  Don't  you  let  Grace  bully  you,"  said  Katherine. 

"  Bully  me  ?  Grace  ? "  Maggie  was  very  astonished.  "  Why, 
she's  the  kindest  old  thing.     She  wants  me  to  do  everything." 

"  So  she  says,"  said  Katherine  doubtfully.  M  But  she's  very 
jealous  of  Paul.  How  much  she'll  really  like  giving  up  her 
authority  when  it  comes  to  the  point  I  don't  know.  You  stick 
up  to  her.    Paul's  weak." 

"  I  don't  think  he  is,"  said  Maggie  rather  indignantly.  "  Grace 
always  does  what  he  says." 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  303 

"Yes,  just  now,"  said  Katherine. 

And  Maggie  had  one  funny  little  conversation  with  Henry 
Trenchard.  That  wild  youth  catching  her  alone  one  day  said 
abruptly : 

"What  the  devil  have  you  done  it  for?" 

"Done  what?"  asked  Maggie,  her  heart  beating  a  little  faster. 
Strangely  Henry  reminded  her  of  Martin.  He  alone  of  all  the 
Trenchards  had  something  that  was  of  that  other  world. 

"  Engaged  yourself  to  Paul,"  said  Henry. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  asked  Maggie. 

"  You  don't  love  him — of  course  you  couldn't.  You're  not  his 
sort  in  the  least.    You're  worth  a  million  Pauls." 

This  was  so  odd  for  Henry,  who  was  certainly  not  given  to 
compliments,  that  Maggie  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Yes,  you  may  laugh,"  said  Henry.  "  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.     Have  you  ever  seen  Paul  asleep  after  dinner  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  wish  you  had.  That  might  have  saved  you.  Have  you  ever 
seen  Grace  lose  her  temper?" 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  this  time  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Look  here,"  he  came  close  to  her,  staring  at  her  with  those 
eyes  of  his  that  could  be  very  charming  when  he  liked.  "  Break 
it  off.    Say  you  think  it's  a  mistake.    You'll  be  miserable." 

"  Indeed  I  shan't,"  said  Maggie,  tossing  her  head.  "  Whatever 
happens  I'm  not  going  to  be  miserable.  No  one  can  make  me 
that." 

"  So  you  think,"  Henry  frowned.  "  I  can't  think  what  you  want 
to  be  married  for  at  all.  These  days  women  can  have  such 
a  good  time,  especially  a  woman  with  character  like  you.  If  I 
were  a  woman  I'd  never  marry." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Maggie.  "  You  haven't  been 
lonely  all  your  life  as  I  have,  and  you're  not  afraid  of  making 
yourself  cheap  and — and — looking  for  some  one  who  doesn't  want 
— you.  It's  so  easy  for  you  to  talk.  And  Paul  wants  me — really 
he  does " 

"  Yes,  he  does,"  said  Henry  slowly.  "  He's  in  love  with  you  all 
right.     I'm  as  sorry  for  Paul  as  I  am  for  you." 

Maggie  laughed.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  be  sorry,"  she  said, 
"  but  you  needn't  trouble.    I  believe  we  can  look  after  ourselves." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  this  conversation  she  was  a 
little  uneasy.  He  was  a  clever  boy,  Henry;  he  did  watch  people. 
But  then  he  was  very  young.    It  was  all  guesswork  with  him. 

She  became  now  strangely  quiescent;  her  energy,  her  individual- 


304  THE  CAPTIVES 

ity,  her  strength  of  will  seemed,  for  the  time,  entirely  to  have 
gone.  She  surrendered  herself  to  Grace  and  Paul  and  Katherine 
and  they  did  what  they  would  with  her. 

Only  once  was  she  disturbed.  Two  nights  before  the  wedding 
she  dreamt  of  Martin.  It  did  not  appear  as  a  dream  at  all.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  asleep  and  that  she  suddenly 
woke.  She  was  gazing,  from  her  bed,  into  her  own  room,  but  at 
the  farther  end  of  it  instead  of  the  wall  with  the  rosy  trees  and 
the  gold  mirror  was  another  room.  This  room  was  9trar>ge  and 
cheerless  with  bare  boards,  a  large  four-poster  bed  with  faded  blue 
hangings,  two  old  black  prints  with  eighteenth-century  figures 
and  a  big  standing  mirror.  In  front  of  the  bed,  staring  into  the 
mirror,  was  Martin.  He  was  dressed  shabbily  in  a  blue  reefer 
coat.  He  looked  older  than  when  she  had  seen  him  last,  was 
stouter  and  ill,  with  white  puffy  cheeks  and  dark  shadows  under 
his  eyes.  She  saw  him  very  clearly  under  the  light  of  two  candles 
that  wavered  a  little  in  the  draught. 

He  was  staring  into  the  mirror,  absorbed  apparently  in  what 
he  saw  there.  She  cried  his  name  and  he  seemed  to  start  and 
turn  towards  the  door  listening.  Then  the  picture  faded.  She 
woke  to  find  herself  sitting  up  in  bed  crying  his  name.     . 

In  the  morning  she  drove  this  dream  away  from  her,  refusing 
to  think  of  it  or  listen  to  it,  but  somewhere  far  down  in  her 
soul  something  trembled. 

The  wedding  was  over  so  quickly  that  she  scarcely  realised  it. 
There  was  the  stuffy  little  church,  very  empty  and  dusty,  with 
brass  plates  on  the  wall.  She  could  hear,  in  the  street,  rumblings 
of  carts  and  the  rattle  of  wheels;  somewhere  a  barrel-organ  played. 
The  clergyman  was  a  little  man  who  smiled  upon  her  kindly. 
When  Paul  put  the  ring  on  her  finger  she  started  as  though  for 
a  moment  she  awoke  from  a  dream.  She  was  glad  that  he  looked 
so  clean  and  tidy.  Grace  was  wearing  too  grand  a  hat  with  black 
feathers.  In  the  vestry  Paul  kissed  her,  and  then  they  walked 
down  the  aisle  together.  She  saw  Katherine  and  Millie  and  Henry. 
Her  fingers  caught  tightly  about  Paul's  stout  arm,  but  she  would 
have  been  more  at  home  she  thought  with  Uncle  Mathew  just  then. 

It  was  a  nice  bright  spring  day,  although  the  wind  blew  the 
dust  about.  They  had  a  meal  in  Katherine's  house  and  some 
one  made  a  speech,  and  Maggie  drank  some  champagne.  She 
hoped  she  looked  nice  in  her  grey  silk  dress,  and  then  caught 
sight  of  herself  in  a  glass  and  thought  she  was  as  ever  a  fright. 

"  My  little  wild  thing — mine  now,"  whispered  Paul.  She 
thought  that  rather  silly;  she  was  not  a  wild  thing,  but  simply 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  305 

Maggie  Cardinal.  Oh,  no!  Maggie  Trenchard.  .  .  .  She  did 
not  feel  Maggie  Trenchard  at  all  and  she  did  not  suppose  that 
she  ever  would. 

They  were  to  have  a  fortnight  alone  at  Skeaton  before  Grace 
came.  Maggie  was  glad  of  that.  Paul  was  really  nicer  when  Grace 
was  not  there. 

They  were  all  very  kind  to  her.  They  had  given  her  good 
presents — Millie  some  silver  brushes,  Henry  some  books,  Philip  a 
fan,  and  Katherine  a  most  beautiful  dressing-bag.  Maggie  had 
never  had  such  things  before.  But  she  could  have  wished  for 
something  from  her  own  people.  She  had  written  to  Uncle  Mathew 
but  had  not  heard  from  him. 

At  the  very  last  moment,  on  the  morning  of  the  wedding  day, 
a  present  came  from  the  aunts — an  old  box  for  handkerchiefs. 
The  cover  was  inlaid  with  sea-shells  and  there  was  a  little  looking- 
glass  inside. 

Very  soon  it  was  all  over  and  then  to  her  own  intense  surprise 
she  was  alone  in  the  train  with  Paul.  What  had  she  expected? 
She  did  not  know — but  somehow  not  this. 

They  were  in  a  first-class  carriage.  Paul  was  doing  the  thing 
nobly.  He  sat  close  to  her,  his  broad  knee  against  her  dress. 
How  broad  his  knee  was,  a  great  expanse  of  black  shining  cloth. 
He  took  her  hand  and  rested  it  on  the  expanse,  and,  at  the  touch 
of  the  stuff  and  the  throb  of  the  warm  flesh  beneath  it,  she 
shivered  a  little  and  would  wish  to  have  drawn  her  hand  away. 
He  seemed  so  much  larger  than  she  had  expected;  from  his  knee 
to  his  high  shining  white  collar  was  an  immense  distance  and 
midway  there  was  a  thick  gold  watch-chain  rising  and  falling 
as  he  breathed.    He  smelt  very  faintly  of  tooth-powder. 

But  on  the  whole  she  was  comfortable;  only  the  thin  gold  ring 
round  her  finger  felt  strange.  Deep  in  a  little  pocket  inside  her 
blouse  was  the  ring  with  the  three  little  pearls. 

"  I  do  hope,  Maggie  darling,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  think  it 
strange  our  not  going  somewhere  else  for  our  honeymoon.  My 
lads  will  be  expecting  me  back — I  was  kept  longer  in  London  than 
I  should  have  been — by  you,  you  little  witch.    My  witch  now " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  urged  her  head  towards 
his  coat.  But  her  hat,  her  beautiful  hat  that  had  cost  so  much 
more  than  she  had  ever  spent  on  a  hat  before,  was  in  the  way. 
It  struck  into  his  chin.  They  were  both  uncomfortable  and 
then,  thank  heaven,  the  train  slowed  down;  they  were  at  a  station 
and  some  one  got  into  their  carriage,  a  stout  man,  all  newspaper 
and  creases  to  his  trousers. 


306  THE  CAPTIVES 

That,  in  the  circumstances,  was  a  great  relief  and  soon  Maggie 
dozed,  seeing  the  telegraph  wires  and  the  trees  like  waving  hands 
through  a  mist  of  sleep. 

As  she  fell  asleep  she  realised  that  this  was  only  the  second 
time  in  all  her  life  that  she  had  been  in  a  train.  Some  one 
bawled  in  her  ear  "  Skeaton !  Skeaton ! "  and  she  looked  up  to 
find  a  goat-faced  porter  gazing  at  her  through  the  window.  She 
was  on  a  storm-driven  platform,  her  husband's  arm  was  through 
hers,  she  was  being  helped  into  an  old  faded  cab.  Now  they  were 
driving  down  a  hill,  under  a  railway-arch,  along  a  road  with  villas 
and  trees,  trees  and  villas,  and  then  villas  alone.  What  a  wind! 
The  bare  branches  were  in  a  frenzy,  and  from  almost  every  villa 
blew  little  pennons  of  white  curtains.  "  They  like  to  have  their 
windows  open  any  way,"  she  thought.  Paul  said  very  little;  he 
was  obviously  nervous  of  how  she  would  take  it  all.  She  took 
it  all  very  well. 

"  What  pretty  houses !  "  she  said.    "  And  here  are  the  shops !  " 

Only  a  few — a  sweet-shop,  a  grocer's,  a  stationer's  with 
"  Simpson's  Library "  on  the  door,  a  post-office. 

"  The  suburbs,"  said  Paul. 

What  a  wind!  It  rolled  up  the  road  like  a  leaping  carpet,  you 
could  almost  see  its  folds  and  creases.  No  one  about — not  a 
living  soul. 

"  The  cab  I  ordered  never  came.  Lucky  thing  there  was  one 
there,"  said  Paul. 

Not  a  soul  about.  Does  any  one  live  here?  She  could  not 
see  much  through  the  window,  and  she  could  hear  nothing  because 
the  glass  rattled  so. 

"  Here  we  are ! "  The  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk.  Here  they  were 
then.  A  gate  swung  to  behind  them,  there  was  a  little  drive 
with  bushes  on  either  side  of  it  and  then  the  house. 

Not  a  very  handsome  house,  Maggie  thought.  A  dull  square 
grey  with  chimneys  like  ears  in  exactly  the  right  places.  Some 
pieces  of  paper  were  whirled  up  and  down  by  the  wind,  they 
danced  about  the  horse's  feet.  She  noticed  that  the  door-handles 
needed  polishing.  A  cavernous  hall,  a  young  girl  with  untidy 
hair  and  a  yelping  dog  received  them. 

"  That's  Mitch !  "  said  Paul.  "  Dear  old  Mitch.  How  are  you, 
dear  old  fellow?    Down  Mitch!    Down!     There's  a  good  dog." 

The  young  girl  was  terrified  of  Maggie.  She  gulped  through 
her  nose. 

"  I've  put  tea  in  the  study,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Tea  at  once,  little  woman,  eh?"  said  Paul.    "I'm  dying  for 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  307 

some.  Thank  you,  Emily.  All  well?  That's  right.  Dear,  dear. 
It  is  nice  to  be  home  again." 

Yes,  he  was  nervous,  poor  Paul.  She  felt  a  great  tenderness 
for  him,  but  she  could  not  say  the  right  words.  She  should  have 
said :  "  It  is  nice,"  but  it  was  not.  The  hall  was  so  cold  and  dark, 
and  all  over  the  house  windows  were  rattling. 

They  went  straight  into  the  study.  What  a  room !  It  reminded 
Maggie  at  once,  in  its  untidiness  and  discomfort,  of  her  father's 
study,  and  that  thought  struck  a  chill  into  her  very  heart,  so  that 
she  had  to  pause  for  a  moment  and  control  herself.  There  were 
piles  of  newspapers  heaped  up  against  the  shelves;  books  run  to 
the  ceiling,  old,  old  books  with  the  covers  tumbling  off  them.  On 
the  stone  mantelpiece  was  a  perfect  litter — old  pipes,  bundles  of 
letters,  a  ball  of  string,  some  yellow  photographs,  a  crucifix  and 
a  small  plant  dead  and  shrivelled  in  its  pot. 

"  Now  then,  darling.     Hurrah  for  some  tea !  " 

She  poured  it  out  and  he  watched  her  in  an  ecstasy.  Strangely 
she  began  to  be  frightened  and  a  little  breathless,  as  though  the 
walls  of  the  room  were  slowly  closing  in.  The  tea  had  been 
standing  a  long  time,  it  was  very  strong  and  chill. 

The  house  was  a  firing-ground  of  rattle  and  whirs,  but  there 
were  no  human  sounds  anywhere.  There  was  dust  all  over  the 
room. 

They  had  said  nothing  for  some  time. 

He  spoke  suddenly,  his  voice  husky  and  awkward,  as  though  he 
were  trying  a  new  voice  for  the  first  time. 

"  Maggie !  "  he  said.    "  Don't  sit  so  far  away.    Come  over  here." 

She  crossed  over  to  him.  He,  with  an  arm  that  seemed  to 
be  suddenly  of  iron,  pulled  her  on  to  his  knee.  She  was  rebellious. 
Her  whole  body  stiffened.  She  did  not  want  this,  she  did  not 
want  this !  Some  voice  within  cried  out :  "  Take  care !  Take 
care ! "  .      .     He  pressed  her  close  to  him ;  he  kissed  her 

furiously,  savagely,  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  her  cheek.  She  could 
feel  his  heart  pounding  beneath  his  clothes  like  a  savage  beast. 
His  hands  were  all  about  her;  he  was  crushing  her  so  that  she 
was  hurt,  but  she  did  not  feel  that  at  all;  there  was  something 
else.     .     .     . 

With  all  her  might  she  fought  down  her  resistance.  This  was 
her  duty.  She  must  obey.  But  something  desolate  and  utterly, 
utterly  lonely  crept  away  and  cried  bitterly,  watching  her 
surrender. 


CHAPTER  in 

SKEATON-ON-SEA 

SHE  was  swinging  higher,  higher,  higher — swinging  with 
that  delightful  rhythm  that  one  knows  best  in  dreams, 
lazily,  idly,  and  yet  with  purpose  and  resolve.  She  was  swinging 
far  above  the  pain,  the  rebellion,  the  surrender.  That  was  left  for 
ever;  the  time  of  her  tears,  of  her  loneliness  was  over.  Above  her, 
yet  distant,  was  a  golden  cloud,  soft,  iridescent,  and  in  the  heart 
of  this  lay,  she  knew,  the  solution  of  the  mystery ;  when  she  reached 
it  the  puzzle  would  be  resolved,  and  in  a  wonderful  tranquillity 
she  could  rest  after  her  journey.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  swung; 
the  cloud  was  a  blaze  of  gold  so  that  she  must  not  look,  but  could 
feel  its  warmth  and  heat  already  irradiating  about  her.  Only  to 
know!  ...  to  connect  the  two  worlds,  to  find  the  bridge,  to 
destroy  the  gulf ! 

Then  suddenly  the  rhythm  changed.  She  was  descending  again ; 
slowly  the  cloud  diminished,  a  globe  of  light,  a  ball  of  fire,  a 
dazzling  star.  The  air  was  cold,  her  eyes  could  not  penetrate  the 
dark ;  with  a  sigh  she  awoke. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  a  filmy  white  shadow  pervaded  the 
room.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  know  where  she  was;  she  saw 
the  ghostly  shadows  of  chairs,  of  the  chest  of  drawers,  of  a  high 
cupboard.  Then  the  large  picture  of  "  The  Crucifixion,"  very,  very 
dim,  reminded  her.  She  knew  where  she  was;  she  turned  and  saw 
her  husband  sleeping  at  her  side,  huddled,  like  a  child,  his  face 
on  his  arm,  gently  breathing,  in  the  deepest  sleep.  She  watched 
him.  There  had  been  a  moment  that  night  when  she  had  hated 
him,  hated  him  so  bitterly  that  she  could  have  fought  him  and 
even  killed  him.  There  had  been  another  moment  after  that, 
when  she  had  been  so  miserable  that  her  own  death  seemed  the 
only  solution,  when  she  had  watched  him  tumble  into  sleep  and 
had  herself  lain,  with  burning  eyes  and  her  flesh  dry  and  hot, 
staring  into  the  dark,  ashamed,  humiliated.  Then  the  old  Maggie 
had  come  to  her  rescue,  the  old  Maggie  who  bade  her  make  the 
best  of  her  conditions  whatever  they  might  be,  who  told  her  there 
was  humour  in  everything,  hope  always,  courage  everywhere,  and 
that  in  her  own  inviolable  soul  lay  her  strength,  that  no  one  could 
defeat  her  did  she  not  defeat  herself. 

'■ — *-*- ■ — • — «aa__^ 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  309 

Now,  most  strangely,  in  that  early  light,  she  felt  a  great  tender- 
ness for  him,  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  for  the  child.  She  put 
out  her  hand,  touched  his  shoulder,  stroked  it  with  her  hand,  laid 
her  head  against  it.  He,  murmuring  in  his  sleep,  turned  towards 
her,  put  his  arm  around  her  and  so,  in  the  shadow  of  his  heart, 
she  fell  into  deep,  dreamless  slumber. 

At  breakfast  that  morning  she  felt  with  him  a  strange  shyness 
and  confusion.  She  had  never  been  shy  with  him  before.  At  the 
very  first  she  had  been  completely  at  her  ease;  that  had  been  one 
of  his  greatest  attractions  for  her.  But  now  she  realised  that  she 
would  be  for  a  whole  fortnight  alone  with  him,  that  she  did  not 
know  him  in  the  least,  and  that  he  himself  was  strangely  embar- 
rassed by  his  own  discoveries  that  he  was  making. 

So  they,  both  of  them,  took  the  world  that  was  on  every  side  of 
them,  put  it  in  between  them  and  left  their  personal  relationship 
to  wait  for  a  better  time. 

Maggie  was  childishly  excited.  She  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  a  house  of  her  own  to  order  and  arrange;  by  the  middle  of 
that  first  afternoon  she  had  forgotten  that  Paul  existed. 

She  admitted  to  herself  at  once,  so  that  there  should  be  no  pre- 
tence about  the  matter,  that  the  house  was  hideous.  "Yes,  it's 
hideous,"  she  said  aloud,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  dining- 
room  and  looking  about  her.  It  never  could  have  been  very  much 
of  a  house,  but  they  (meaning  Paul  and  Grace)  had  certainly  not 
done  their  best  for  it. 

Maggie  had  had  no  education,  she  had  not  perhaps  much  natural 
taste,  but  she  knew  when  things  and  people  were  sympathetic,  and 
this  house  was  as  unsympathetic  as  a  house  could  well  be.  To 
begin  with,  the  wall-papers  were  awful;  in  the  dining-room  there 
was  a  dark  dead  green  with  some  kind  of  pink  flower;  the  drawing- 
room  was  dressed  in  a  kind  of  squashed  strawberry  colour;  the 
wall-paper  of  the  staircases  and  passages  was  of  imitation  marble, 
and  the  three  bedrooms  were  pink,  green,  and  yellow,  perfect 
horticultural  shows. 

It  was  the  distinctive  quality  of  all  the  wall-papers  that  nothing 
looked  well  against  them,  and  the  cheap  reproductions  in  gilt 
frames,  the  religious  prints,  the  photographs  (groups  of  the  Rev. 
Paul  at  Cambridge,  at  St.  Ermand's  Theological  College,  with  the 
Skeaton  Band  of  Hope)  were  all  equally  forlorn  and  out  of  place. 

It  was  evident  that  everything  in  the  house  was  arranged  and 
intended  to  stay  for  ever  where  it  was,  the  chairs  against  the  walls, 
the  ornaments  on  the  mantelpieces,   the  photograph-frames,  the 


310  THE  CAPTIVES 

plush  mats,  the  bright  red  pots  with  ferns,  the  long  blue  vases,  and 
yet  the  impression  was  not  one  of  discipline  and  order.  Aunt 
Anne's  house  had  been  untidy,  but  it  had  had  an  odd  life  and 
atmosphere  of  its  own.  This  house  was  dead,  utterly  and  com- 
pletely dead.  The  windows  of  the  dining-room  looked  out  on  to  a 
lawn  and  round  the  lawn  was  a  stone  wall  with  broken  glass  to  pro- 
tect it.  "  As  though  there  were  anything  to  steal ! "  thought 
Maggie.  But  then  you  cannot  expect  a  garden  to  look  its  best  at 
the  beginning  of  April.  "I'll  wait  a  little,"  thought  Maggie. 
"  And  tben  I'll  make  this  house  better.  I'll  destroy  almost  every- 
thing in  it." 

About  mid-day  with  rather  a  quaking  heart  Maggie  penetrated 
the  kitchen.  Here  were  gathered  together  Alice  the  cook,  Emily 
the  housemaid,  and  Clara  the  between  maid. 

Alice  was  large,  florid,  and  genial.  Nevertheless  at  once  Maggie 
distrusted  her.  No  servant"  had  any  right  to  appear  so  wildly  de- 
lighted to  see  a  new  mistress.  Alice  had  doubtless  her  own  plans. 
Emily  was  prim  and  conceited,  and  Clara  did  not  exist.  Alice 
was  ready  to  do  everything  that  Maggie  wanted,  and  it  was  very 
apparent  at  once  that  she  had  not  liked  "  Miss  Grace." 

"  Ah,  that'll  be  much  better  than  the  way  Miss  Grace  'ad  it, 
Mum.  In  their  jackets,  Mum,  very  well.  Certainly.  That  would 
be  better." 

"  I  think  you'd  better  just  give  us  what  seems  easiest  for  dinner, 
Cook,"  said  Maggie,  thereby  handing  herself  over,  delivered  and 
bound. 

"  Very  well,  Mum — I'm  sure  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Alice. 

Early  on  that  first  afternoon  she  was  taken  to  see  the  Church. 
Eor  a  desperate  moment  her  spirits  failed  her  as  she  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  Lane  and  looked.  This  was  a  Church  of  the  newest  red 
brick,  and  every  seat  was  of  the  most  shining  wood.  The  East 
End  window  was  flaming  purple,  with  a  crimson  Christ  ascending 
and  yellow  and  blue  disciples  amazed  together  on  the  ground. 
Paul  stood  flushed  with  pride  and  pleasure,  his  hand  through 
Maggie's  arm. 

"  That's  a  Partright  window,"  he  said  with  that  inflection 
that  Maggie  was  already  beginning  to  think  of  as  "his  public 
voice." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Paul  dear,"  said  Maggie,  "  I'm  very  ignorant." 

"Don't  know  Partright?  Oh,  he's  the  great  man  of  the  last 
thirty  years — did  the  great  East  window  of  St.  Martin's,  Ponte- 
fract.  We  had  a  job  to  get  him  I  can  tell  you.  Just  look  at  that 
purple. 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  311 

"On  the  right  you'll  see  the  Memorial  Tablet  to  our  brave  lads 
who  fell  in  the  South  African  War — Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro 
patria  mori — very  appropriate.  Brave  fellows,  brave  fellows !  Just 
behind  you,  Maggie,  is  the  Mickleham  Font,  one  of  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  modern  stone-work  in  the  county — given  to  us  by  Sir 
Joseph  Mickleham — Mickleham  Hall,  you  know,  only  two  miles 
from  here.  He  used  to  attend  morning  service  here  frequently. 
Died  five  years  ago.    Fine  piece  of  work !  " 

Maggie  looked  at  it.  It  was  enormous,  a  huge  battlement  of  a 
font  in  dead  white  stone  with  wreaths  of  carved  ivy  creeping 
about  it. 

"It  makes  one  feel  rather  shivery,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Now  you  must  see  our  lectern,"  said  Paul  eagerly. 

And  so  it  continued.  There  was  apparently  a  great  deal  to  be 
said  about  the  Lectern,  and  then  about  the  Choir-Screen,  and  then 
about  the  Reredos,  and  then  about  the  Pulpit,  and  then  about  the 
Vestry,  and  then  about  the  Collecting-Box  for  the  Poor,  and  then 
about  the  Hassocks,  and  finally  about  the  Graveyard.  ...  To 
all  this  Maggie  listened  and  hoped  that  she  made  the  proper 
answers,  but  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she  was  cold  and 
dismayed.  The  Chapel  had  been  ugly  enough,  but  behind  its  ugli- 
ness there  had  been  life;  now  with  the  Church  as  with  the  house 
there  was  no  life  visible.  Paul,  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
said: 

"Here,  darling,  will  be  the  centre  of  our  lives.  This  is  our 
temple.    Round  this  building  all  our  happiness  will  revolve." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Maggie.  She  was  taken  then  for  a  little  walk. 
They  went  down  Ivy  Road  and  into  Skeaton  High  Street.  Here 
were  the  shops.  Mr.  Bloods,  the  bookseller's,  Tunstall  the  butcher, 
Toogood  the  grocer,  Father  the  draper,  Minster  the  picture-dealer, 
Harcourt  the  haberdasher,  and  so  on.  Maggie  rather  liked  the  High 
Street;  it  reminded  her  of  the  High  Street  in  Polchester,  although 
there  was  no  hill.  Out  of  the  High  Street  and  on  to  the  Esplanade. 
You  should  never  see  an  Esplanade  out  of  the  season,  Katherine 
had  once  said  to  Maggie.  That  dictum  seemed  certainly  true  this 
time.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  this  Esplanade  was  not  looking 
its  best  under  the  blustering  March  wind.  Here  a  deserted  band- 
stand, there  a  railway  station,  here  a  dead  haunt  for  pierrots,  there 
a  closed  and  barred  cinema  house,  here  a  row  of  stranded  bathing- 
machines,  there  a  shuttered  tea-house — and  not  a  living  soul  in 
sight.  In  front  of  them  was  a  long  long  stretch  of  sand,  behind 
them  to  right  and  left  the  huddled  tenements  of  the  town,  in  front 
of  them,  beyond  the  sand,  the  grey  sea — and  again  not  a  living 


312  THE  CAPTIVES 

soul  in  sight.  The  railway  line  wound  its  way  at  their  side,  losing 
itself  in  the  hills  and  woods  of  the  horizon. 

"  There  are  not  many  people  about,  are  there  ? "  said  Maggie. 
Nor  could  she  wonder.  The  East  wind  cut  along  the  desolate 
stretches  of  silence,  and  yet  how  strange  a  wind!  It  seemed  to 
have  no  effect  at  all  upon  the  sea,  which  rolled  in  sluggishly  with 
snake-like  motion,  throwing  up  on  the  dim  colourless  beach  a  thin 
fringe  of  foam,  baring  its  teeth  at  the  world  in  impotent  dis- 
content. 

"  Oh !  there's  a  boy ! "  cried  Maggie,  amazed  at  her  own  relief. 
"  How  often  do  the  trains  come  in  ? "  she  asked. 

*  Well,  we  don't  have  many  trains  in  the  off-season,"  said  Paul. 
"  They  put  on  several  extra  ones  in  the  summer." 

"  Oh,  what's  the  sand  doing  ?  "  Maggie  cried. 

She  had  seen  sand  often  enough  in  her  own  Glebeshire,  but 
never  sand  like  this.  Under  the  influence  of  the  wind  it  was 
blowing  and  curving  into  little  spirals  of  dust;  a  sudden  cloud, 
with  a  kind  of  personal  animosity  rose  and  flung  itself  across  the 
rails  at  Maggie  and  Paul.  They  were  choking  and  blinded — and 
in  the  distance  clouds  of  sand  rose  and  fell,  with  gusts  and  im- 
pulses that  seemed  personal  and  alive. 

"  What  funny  sand !  "  said  Maggie  again.  "  When  it  blows  in 
Glebeshire  it  blows  and  there's  a  perfect  storm.     There's  a  storm 

or  there  isn't.    Here "    She  broke  off.    She  could  see  that  Paul 

hadn't  the  least  idea  of  what  she  was  speaking. 

"  The  sand  is  always  blowing  about  here,"  he  said.  "  Now  what 
about  tea  ? " 

They  walked  back  through  the  High  Street  and  not  a  soul  was 
to  be  seen. 

"  Does  nobody  live  here  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  The  population,"  said  Paul  quite  gravely,  "  is  eight  thousand, 
four  hundred  and  fifty-four." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Maggie. 

They  had  tea  in  the  dusty  study  again. 

"  I'm  going  to  change  this  house,"  said  Maggie. 

*  Change  it  ? "  asked  Paul.    "  What's  my  little  girl  going  to  do  ? " 
"  She's  going  to  destroy  ever  so  many  things,"  said  Maggie. 
"You'd  better  wait,"  said  Paul,  moving  a  little  away,  "until 

Grace  comes  back,  dear.    You  can  consult  with  her." 
Maggie  said  nothing. 

Next  day  Mrs.  Constantine,  Miss  Purves.  and  Mrs.  Maxse  came 
to  tea.    They  had  tea  in  the  drawing-room  all  amongst  the  squashed 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  313 

strawberries.  Three  large  ferns  in  crimson  pots  watched  them  as 
they  ate.  Maggie  thought :  "  Grace  seems  to  have  a  passion  for 
ferns."  She  had  been  terribly  nervous  before  the  ladies'  arrival 
— that  old  nervousness  that  had  made  her  tremble  before  Aunt 
Anne  at  St.  Dreot's,  before  the  Warlocks,  before  old  Martha.  But 
with  it  came  as  always  her  sense  of  independence  and  individuality. 

"  They  can't  eat  me,"  she  thought.  It  was  obvious  at  once  that 
they  did  not  want  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  They  were  full  of 
kindness  and  curiosity.  Mrs.  Constantine  took  the  lead,  and  it  was 
plain  that  she  had  been  doing  this  all  her  life.  She  was  a  large 
black  and  red  woman  with  clothes  that  fitted  her  like  a  uniform. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  raven  gleaming  blackness,  her  cheeks  were  red, 
her  manner  so  assured  and  commanding  that  she  seemed  to  Maggie 
at  once  like  a  policeman  directing  the  traffic.  The  policeman  of 
Christian  Skeaton  she  was,  and  it  did  not  take  Maggie  two  minutes 
to  discover  that  Paul  was  afraid  of  her.  She  had  a  deep  bass  voice 
and  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  I  can  understand  her,"  thought  Maggie,  "  and  I  believe  she'll 
understand  me." 

Very  different  Miss  Purves.  If  Mrs.  Constantine  was  the  police- 
man of  Skeaton,  Miss  Purves  was  the  town-crier.  She  rang  her 
bell  and  announced  the  news,  and  also  insisted  that  you  should  tell 
her  without  delay  any  item  of  news  that  you  had  collected. 

In  appearance  she  was  like  any  old  maid  whose  love  of  gossip  has 
led  her  to  abandon  her  appearance.  She  had  obviously  surrendered 
the  idea  of  attracting  the  male,  and  flung  on  her  clothes — an  old 
black  hat,  a  grey  coat  and  skirt — with  a  negligence  that  showed 
that  she  cared  for  worthier  things.  She  gave  the  impression  that 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  were  one  to  gather  all  the  things 
in  life  worth  hearing. 

If  Mrs.  Constantine  stood  for  the  police  and  Miss  Purves  the 
town-crier,  Mrs.  Maxse  certainly  represented  Society.  She  was 
dressed  beautifully,  and  she  must  have  been  very  pretty  once.  Her 
hair  now  was  grey,  but  her  cheeks  had  still  a  charming  bloom. 
She  was  delicate  and  fragile,  rustling  and  scented,  with  a  beautiful 
string  of  pearls  round  her  neck  (this,  in  the  daytime,  Maggie 
thought  very  odd),  and  a  large  black  hat  with  a  sweeping  feather. 
Her  voice  was  a  little  sad.  a  little  regretful,  as  though  she  knew 
that  her  beautiful  youth  was  gone  and  was  making  the  best  of 
what  she  had. 

She  told  Maggie  that  "  she  couldn't  help  "  being  an  idealist. 

"  I  know  it's  foolish  of  me,"  she  said  in  her  gentle  voice,  smiling 
her  charming  smile.    "  They  all  tell  me  so.    But  if  life  isn't  meant 


314  THE  CAPTIVES 

to  be  beautiful,  where  are  we?  Everything  must  have  a  meaning, 
mustn't  itTTTrs.  Trenchard,  and  however  often  we  fail — and  after 
all  we  are  only  human — we  must  try,  try  again.  I  believe  in  seeing 
the  best  in  people,  because  then  they  live  up  to  that.  People  are 
what  we  make  them,  don't  you  think  ? " 

"  The  woman's  a  fool,"  thought  Maggie.  Nevertheless,  she  liked 
her  kindness.  She  was  so  strangely  driven.  She  wished  to  think 
of  Martin  always,  never  to  forget  him,  but  at  the  same  time  not  to 
think  of  the  life  that  was  connected  with  him.  She  must  never 
think  of  him  as  some  one  who  might  return.  Did  that  once  begin 
all  this  present  life  would  be  impossible — and  she  meant  to  make 
this  new  existence  not  only  possible  but  successful.  Therefore  she 
was  building,  so  hard  as  she  could,  this  new  house;  the  walls  were 
rising,  the  rooms  were  prepared,  every  window  was  barred,  the 
doors  were  locked,  no  one  from  outside  should  enter,  and  every- 
thing that  belonged  to  it — Paul,  Grace,  the  Church,  these  women, 
Skeaton  itself,  her  household  duties,  the  servants,  everything  and 
every  one  was  pressed  into  service.  She  must  have  so  much  to 
do  that  she  could  not  think,  she  must  like  every  one  else  so  much 
that  she  could  not  want  any  one  else — that  other  world  must  be 
kept  out,  no  sound  nor  sight  of  it  must  enter.  ...  If  even  she 
could  forget  Martin.  What  had  he  said  to  her.  "Promise  me 
whatever  I  am,  whatever  I  do,  you  will  love  me  always  " — and  she 
had  promised.  Here  she  was  married  to  Paul  and  loving  Martin 
more  than  ever !  As  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Constantine  she  wondered 
what  she  would  say  did  she  know  that.  Nevertheless,  she  had  not 
deceived  Paul.  .  .  .  She  had  told  him.  She  would  make  this 
right.  She  would  force  this  life  to  give  her  what  she  needed,  work 
and  friends  and  a  place  in  the  world.  Her  face  a  little  white  with 
her  struggle  to  keep  her  house  standing,  she  turned  to  her  guests. 
She  was  afraid  that  she  did  not  play  the  hostess  very  well.  She 
felt  as  though  she  were  play-acting.  She  repeated  phrases  that  she 
had  heard  Katherine  Mark  use,  and  laughed  at  herself  for  doing  so. 
She  suspected  that  they  thought  her  very  odd,  and  she  fancied  that 
Mrs.  Constantine  looked  at  her  short  hair  with  grave  suspicion. 

Afterwards,  when  she  told  Paul  this,  he  was  rather  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  It'll  soon  be  long  again,  dear,  won't  it  ? "  he  said. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  short  then  ? "  she  asked. 

"Of  course  I  like  it,  but  there's  no  reason  to  be  unusual,  is 
there?  We  don't  want  to  seem  different  from  other  people,  do  we, 
darling?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.     "  We  want  to  be  ourselves.     I 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  315 

don't  think  I  shall  ever  grow  my  hair  long  again.  It's  so  much 
more  comfortable  like  this." 

"  If  I  ask  you,  dear,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  not  even  if  you  ask  me,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

She  noticed  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  could  look  sulky 
like  a  small  school-boy. 

"  Why,  Paul,"  she  said.  "  If  you  wanted  to  grow  a  beard  I 
shouldn't  like  it,  but  I  shouldn't  dream  of  stopping  you." 

"That's  quite  different,"  he  answered.  "I  should  never  dream 
of  growing  a  beard.    Grace  won't  like  it  if  you  look  odd." 

"Grace  isn't  my  teacher,"  said  Maggie  with  a  sudden  hot  hos- 
tility that  surprised  herself. 

She  discovered,  by  the  way,  very  quickly  that  the  three  ladies 
had  no  very  warm  feelings  for  Grace.  They  showed  undisguised 
pleasure  at  the  thought  that  Maggie  would  now  be  on  various  Com- 
mittees instead  of  her  sister-in-law. 

"  It  will  be  your  place,  of  course,  as  wife  of  the  vicar,"  said 
Mrs.  Constantine.    "  Hitherto  Miss  Trenchard " 

"  Oh,  but  I  couldn't  be  on  a  Committee,"  cried  Maggie.  "  I've 
never  been  on  one  in  my  life.    I  should  never  know  what  to  do." 

"  Never  been  on  a  Committee ! "  cried  Miss  Purves,  quivering 
with  interest.  "Why,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  where  have  you  been  all 
this  time?" 

"I'm  only  twenty,"  said  Maggie.  They  certainly  thought  it 
strange  of  her  to  confess  to  her  age  like  that.  "  At  home  father 
never  had  any  Committees,  he  did  it  all  himself,  or  rather  didn't 
do  it." 

Mrs.  Constantine  shook  her  head.  "  We  must  all  help  you,"  she 
said.  "You're  very  young,  my  dear,  for  the  responsibilities  of 
this  parish." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Maggie  frankly.  "And  I'll  be  very  glad  of 
anything  you  can  tell  me.  But  you  mustn't  let  me  be  Treasurer 
or  Secretary  of  anything.  I  should  never  answer  any  of  the 
letters,  and  I  should  probably  spend  all  the  money  myself." 

"My  dear,  you  shouldn't  say  such  things  even  as  a  joke,"  said 
Mrs.  Constantine. 

"  But  it  isn't  a  joke,"  said  Maggie.  "  I'm  terribly  muddle- 
headed,  and  I've  no  idea  of  money  at  all.  Paul's  going  to  teach 
me." 

Paul  smiled  nervously. 

"  Maggie  will  soon  fit  into  our  ways,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  sure  she  will,"  said  Mrs.  Constantine  very  kindly,  but  as 
though  she  were  speaking  to  a  child  of  ten. 


316  THE  CAPTIVES 

The  bell  rang  and  Mr.  Flaunders  the  curate  came  in.  He  was 
very  young,  very  earnest,  and  very  enthusiastic.  He  adored  Paul. 
He  told  Maggie  that  he  thought  that  he  was  the  very  luckiest  man 
in  the  world  for  having,  so  early  in  his  career,  so  wonderful  a  man 
as  Paul  to  work  under.  He  had  also  adored  Grace,  but  very  quickly 
showed  signs  of  transferring  that  adoration  to  Maggie. 

"  Miss  Trenchard's  splendid,"  he  said.  "  I  do  admire  her  so, 
but  you'll  be  a  great  help  to  us  all.    I'm  so  glad  you've  come." 

"Why,  how  do  you  know?"  asked  Maggie.  "You've  only  seen 
me  for  about  two  minutes." 

"Ah,  one  can  tell,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  sighing. 

Maggie  liked  his  enthusiasm,  but  she  couldn't  help  wishing  that 
his  knees  wouldn't  crack  at  unexpected  moments,  that  he  wasn't 
quite  so  long  and  thin,  and  that  he  wouldn't  leave  dried  shaving- 
soap  under  his  ears  and  in  his  nostrils.  She  was  puzzled,  too,  that 
Paul  should  be  so  obviously  pleased  with  the  rather  naif  adora- 
tion. "  Paul  likes  you  to  praise  him,"  she  thought  a  little  regret- 
fully. 

So,  for  the  moment,  these  people,  the  house  and  the  Church, 
fitted  in  her  World.  For  the  rest  of  the  fortnight  she  was  so  busy 
that  she  never  went  on  to  the  beach  nor  into  the  woods.  She 
shopped  every  morning,  feeling  very  old  and  grown-up,  she  went  to 
tea  with  Mrs.  Constantine  and  Mrs.  Maxse,  and  she  sat  on  Paul's 
knee  whenever  she  thought  that  he  would  like  her  to.  She  sat  on 
Paul's  knee,  but  that  did  not  mean  that,  in  real  intimacy,  they 
approached  any  nearer  to  one  another.  During  those  days  they 
stared  at  one  another  like  children  on  different  sides  of  a  fence. 
They  were  definitely  postponing  settlement,  and  with  every  day 
Maggie  grew  more  restless  and  uneasy.  She  wanted  back  that  old 
friendly  comradeship  that  there  had  been  before  their  marriage. 
He  seemed  now  to  have  lost  altogether  that  attitude  to  her.  Then 
on  the  very  day  of  Grace's  return  the  storm  broke.  It  was  tea- 
time  and  they  were  having  it,  as  usual,  in  his  dusty  study.  They 
were  sitting  someway  apart — Paul  in  the  old  leather  armchair  by 
the  fire,  his  thick  body  stretched  out,  his  cheerful  good-humoured 
face  puckered  and  peevish. 

Maggie  stood  up,  looking  at  him. 

"  Paul,  what's  the  matter  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Matter,"  he  repeated.    "  Nothing." 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is.  .    .    .  You're  cross  with  me." 

"  No,  I'm  not.  What  an  absurd  idea ! "  He  moved  restlessly, 
turning  half  away,  not  looking  at  her.    She  came  close  up  to  him. 

"  Look  here,  Paul.    There  is  something  the  matter.    We  haven't 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  317 

been  married  a  fortnight  yet  and  you're  unhappy.  Whatever  else 
we  married  for  we  married  because  we  were  going  to  be  friends. 
So  you've  just  got  to  tell  me  what  the  trouble  is." 

"I've  got  my  sermon  to  prepare,"  he  said,  not  looking  at  her, 
but  half  rising  in  his  chair.    "  You'd  better  go,  darling." 

"I'm  not  going  to,"  she  answered,  "until  you've  told  me  why 
you're  worrying." 

He  got  up  slowly  and  seemed  then  as  though  he  were  going  to 
pass  her.  Suddenly  he  turned,  flung  his  arms  round  her,  catching 
her,  crushing  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  wildly. 

"  Love  .  .  .  love  me  .  .  .  love  me,"  he  whispered.  "  That's 
what's  the  matter.  I  didn't  know  myself  before  I  married  you, 
Maggie.  All  these  years  I've  lived  like  a  fish  and  I  didn't  know 
it.  But  I  know  it  now.  And  you've  got  to  love  me.  You're  my 
wife  and  you've  got  to  love  me." 

She  would  have  given  everything  that  she  had  then  to  respond. 
She  felt  an  infinite  tenderness  and  pity  for  him.  But  she  could 
not.  He  felt  that  she  could  not.  He  let  her  go  and  turned  away 
from  her.  She  thought  for  a  moment  wondering  what  she  ought 
to  say,  and  then  she  came  up  to  him  and  gently  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  Be  patient,  Paul,"  she  said.  "  You  know  we  agreed  before  we 
married  that  we'd  be  friends  at  any  rate  and  let  the  rest  come. 
Wait.  ..." 

"  Wait !  "  he  turned  round  eagerly,  clutching  her  arm.  "  Then 
there  is  a  chance,  Maggie  ?  You  can  get  to  love  me — you  can  forget 
that  other  man  ? " 

She  drew  back.  "  No,  you  know  I  told  you  that  I  should  never 
do  that.  But  he'll  never  come  back  nor  want  me  again  and  I'm 
very  fond  of  you,  Paul — fonder  than  I  thought.  Don't  spoil  it 
all  now  by  going  too  fast " 

"  Going  too  fast !  "  he  laughed.  "  Why,  I  haven't  gone  any  way 
at  all.  I  haven't  got  you  anywhere.  I  can  hardly  touch  you. 
You're  away  from  me  all  the  time.  You're  strange — different  from 
every  one.  .    .   . 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  women.  I've  learnt  a  lot  about 
myself  this  week.    It  isn't  going  to  be  as  easy  as  I  thought." 

She  went  up  to  him,  close  to  him,  and  said  almost  desperately: 

"  We  must  make  this  all  right,  Paul.  We  can  if  we  try.  I 
know  we  can." 

He  kissed  her  gently  with  his  old  kindness.  "  What  a  baby  you 
are.  You  didn't  know  what  you  were  in  for.  .  .  .  Oh,  we'll  make 
it  all  right." 


318  THE  CAPTIVES 

They  sat  close  together  then  and  drank  their  tea.  After  all, 
Grace  would  be  here  in  an  hour!  They  both  felt  a  kind  of  relief 
that  they  would  no  longer  be  alone. 

Grace  would  be  here  in  an  hour!  Strange  how  throughout  all 
these  last  days  Maggie  had  been  looking  forward  to  that  event 
with  dread.  There  was  no  definite  reason  for  fear;  in  London 
Grace  had  been  kindness  itself  and  had  shown  real  affection  for 
Maggie.  Within  the  last  week  she  had  written  two  very  affec- 
tionate letters.  What  was  this,  then,  that  hung  and  hovered?  It 
was  in  the  very  air  of  the  house  and  the  garden  and  the  place. 
Grace  had  left  her  mark  upon  everything  and  every  one,  even 
upon  the  meagre  person  of  Mitch  the  dog.  Especially  upon  Mitch, 
a  miserable  creeping  fox-terrier  with  no  spirits  and  a  tendency  to 
tremble  all  over  when  you  called  him.  He  had  attached  himself 
to  Maggie,  which  was  strange,  because  animals  were  not,  as  a  rule, 
interested  in  her.  Mitch  followed  her  about,  looking  up  at  her 
with  a  yellow  supplicating  eye.  She  didn't  like  him  and  she  would 
be  glad  when  Grace  collected  him  again — but  why  did  he  tremble? 

She  realised,  in  the  way  that  she  had  of  seeing  further  than  her 
nose,  that  Grace  was  going  to  affect  the  whole  of  her  relations  with 
Paul,  and,  indeed,  all  her  future  life.  She  had  not  realised  that 
in  London.  Grace  had  seemed  harmless  there  and  unimportant. 
Already  here  in  Skeaton  she  seemed  to  stand  for  a  whole  scheme 
of  life. 

Maggie  had  moved  and  altered  a  good  many  of  the  things  in 
the  house.  She  had  discovered  a  small  attic,  and  into  this  she  had 
piled  pell-mell  a  number  of  photographs,  cheap  reproductions, 
cushions,  worsted  mats,  and  china  ornaments.  She  had  done  it 
gaily  and  with  a  sense  of  clearing  the  air. 

Now  as  Grace's  hour  approached  she  was  not  so  sure. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  reassured  herself  with  her  favourite 
defiance.    "  She  can't  eat  me.    And  it's  my  house." 

Paul  had  not  noticed  the  alterations.  He  was  always  blind  to 
his  surroundings  unless  they  were  what  he  called  *  queer." 

There  was  the  rattle  of  the  cab-wheels  on  the  drive  and  a  moment 
later  Grace  was  in  the  hall. 

"Dear  Paul — Maggie,  dear.  ..." 

She  stood  there,  a  very  solid  and  assured  figure.  She  was  square 
and  thick  and  reminded  Maggie  to-day  of  Mrs.  Noah;  her  clothes 
stood  cut  out  around  her  as  though  they  had  been  cut  in  wood. 
She  had  her  large  amiable  smile,  and  the  kiss  that  she  gave  Maggie 
was  a  wet,  soft,  and  very  friendly  one. 

"  Now  I  think  I'll  have  tea  at  once  without  taking  my  hat  off. 


SKEATON-ON-SEA  319 

In  Paul's  study?  That's  nice.  .  .  .  Maggie,  dear,  how  are  you? 
Such  a  journey !  But  astonishing !  Just  fancy !  I  got  into  Char- 
ing Cross  and  then !    Why !    Here's  the  study !    Fancy !  .   .   . 

Maggie,  dear,  how  are  you?  Well?  That's  right.  Why,  there's 
tea!  That's  right.  Everything  just  as  it  was.  Fancy!  .  .  ." 
She  took  off  her  gloves,  smiled,  seated  herself  more  comfortably, 
then  began  to  look  about  the  room.  Suddenly  there  came :  "  Why, 
Paul,  where's  the  Emmanuel  football  group  ? " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Maggie  felt  her  heart  give  a 
little  bump,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  right  against  the  roof  of  her 
mouth.  Paul  (so  like  him)  had  not  noticed  that  the  football  group 
had  vanished.  He  stared  at  the  blank  place  on  the  wall  where  it 
had  once  been. 

"Why,  Grace  ...  I  don't  know.  I  never  noticed  it  wasn't 
there." 

"  I  took  it  down,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  thought  there  were  too 
many  photographs.    It's  in  the  attic." 

"  In  the  attic  ?  .  .  .  Fancy !  You  put  it  away,  did  you, 
Maggie?  Well,  fancy!  Shan't  I  make  the  tea,  Maggie,  dear? 
That  tea-pot,  it's  an  old  friend  of  mine.    I  know  how  to  manage  it." 

They  changed  seats.  Grace  was  as  amiable  as  ever,  but  now  her 
eyes  flashed  about  from  place  to  place  all  around  the  room. 

"  Why,  this  is  a  new  kind  of  jam.  How  nice !  As  I  was  saying, 
I  got  into  Charing  Cross  and  there  wasn't  a  porter.  Just  fancy! 
At  least  there  was  a  porter,  an  old  man,  but  when  I  beckoned  to 
him  he  wouldn't  move.  Well,  I  was  angry.  I  can  tell  you,  Paul, 
I  wasn't  going  to  stand  that,  so  I — what  nice  jam,  dear.  I  never 
knew  Mitchell's  had  jam  like  this ! " 

"  I  didn't  get  it  at  Mitchell's,"  said  Maggie.  "  I've  changed  the 
grocer.  Mitchell  hasn't  got  anything,  and  his  prices  are  just  about 
double  Brownjohn's.  .   .   ." 

"  Brownjohn ! "  Grace  stared,  her  bread  and  jam  suspended. 
"  Brownjohn !    But,  Maggie  dear,  he's  a  dissenter." 

■  Oh,  Maggie! "  said  Paul.    "  You  should  have  told  me! " 

"  Why !  "  said  Maggie,  bewildered.  "  Father  never  minded  about 
dissenters.    Our  butcher  in  St.  Dreot's  was  an  atheist  and " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Grace,  her  eyes  still  flashing  about  like  gold- 
fish in  a  pool.  "You  didn't  know,  dear.  Of  course  you  didn't. 
I'm  sure  we  can  put  it  right  with  Mitchell,  although  he's  a  sensi- 
tive man.  I'll  go  and  see  him  in  the  morning.  I  am  glad  I'm 
back.  Well,  I  was  telling  you.  .  .  .  Where  was  I?  .  .  .  about 
the  porter " 

Something  drove  Maggie  to  say: 


320  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  I'd  rather  have  a  good  grocer  who's  a  dissenter  than  a  bad  one 
who  goes  to  church " 

"Maggie,"  said  Paul,  "you  don't  know  what  you're  saying. 
You  don't  realise  what  the  effect  in  the  parish  would  be." 

"  Of  course  she  doesn't,"  said  Grace  consolingly.  "  She'll  under- 
stand in  time.  As  I  was  saying,  I  was  so  angry  that  I  caught  the 
old  man  by  the  arm  and  I  said  to  him,  '  If  you  think  you're  paid 
to  lean  up  against  a  wall  and  not  do  your  duty  you're  mightily 
mistaken,  and  if  you  aren't  careful  I'll  report  you — that's  what 
I'll  do,'  and  he  said — what  were  his  exact  words  ?  I'll  remember  in 
a  minute.  I  know  he  was  very  insulting,  and  the  taxi-cabman — 
why,  Paul,  where's  mother's  picture?" 

Grace's  eyes  were  directed  to  a  large  space  high  above  the 
mantelpiece.  Maggie  remembered  that  there  had  been  a  big  faded 
oil-painting  of  an  old  lady  in  a  shawl  and  spectacles,  a  hideous 
affair  she  had  thought  it.  That  was  now  reposing  in  the  attic. 
Why  had  she  not  known  that  it  was  a  picture  of  Paul's  mother? 
She  would  never  have  touched  it  had  she  known.  Why  had  Paul 
said  nothing?    He  had  not  even  noticed  that  it  was  gone. 

Paul  stared,  amazed  and  certainly — yes,  beyond  question — 
frightened. 

"  Grace — upon  my  word — I've  been  so  busy  since  my  return " 

"  Is  that  also  in  the  attic  ? "  asked  Grace. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Maggie.  "  I'm  so  sorry.  I  never  knew  it  was 
your  mother.  It  wasn't  a  very  good  painting  I  thought,  so  I  took 
it  down.  If  I  had  known,  of  course,  I  never  would  have  touched 
it.    Oh  Grace,  I  am  so  sorry." 

"It's  been  there,"  said  Grace,  "for  nearly  twenty  years.  What 
I  mean  to  say  is  that  it's  always  been  there.  Poor  mother.  Are 
there  many  things  in  the  attic,  Maggie  ? " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  feeble  scratching  on  the  door. 
Paul,  evidently  glad  of  anything  that  would  relieve  the  situation, 
opened  the  door. 

"  Why,  it's  Mitch ! "  cried  Grace,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her 
mother.  "Fancy!  It's  Mitch!  Mitch,  dear!  Was  she  glad  to 
see  her  old  friend  back  again  ?  Was  she  ?  Darling !  Fancy  seeing 
her  old  friend  again  ?    Was  she  wanting  her  back  ? " 

Mitch  stood  shivering  in  the  doorway,  then,  with  her  halting 
step,  the  skin  of  her  back  wrinkled  with  anxiety,  she  crossed  the 
room.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  with  shamefaced  terror, 
slunk  to  Maggie,  pressed  ur>  against  her.  and  sat  there  huddled, 
staring  at  Grace  with  yellow  unfriendly  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GRACE 

NOT  in  a  day  and  not  in  a  night  did  Maggie  find  a  key  to  that 
strange  confusion  of  fears,  superstitions,  and  self-satisfac- 
tions that  was  known  to  the  world  as  Grace  Trenchard.    Perhaps 
she  never  found  it,  and  through  all  the  struggle  and  conflict  in 
which  she  was  now  to  be  involved  she  was  fighting,  desperately,    / 
in  the  dark.    Fight  she  did,  and  it  was  this  same  conflict,  bitter  / 
and  tragic  enough  at  the  time,  that  transformed  her  into  the  J 
woman  that  she  became  .    .    .  and  through  all  that  conflict  it  may 
be  truly  said  of  her  that  she  never  knew  a  moment's  bitterness —  \ 
anger,  dismay,  loneliness,  even  despair — bitterness  never. 

It  was  not  strange  that  Maggie  did  not  understand  Grace; 
Grace  never  understood  herself  nor  did  she  make  the  slightest 
attempt  to  do  so.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  cover  the  ground  at 
once  by  saying  that  she  had  no  imagination,  that  she  never  went 
behind  the  thing  that  she  saw,  and  that  she  found  the  grasping 
of  external  things  quite  as  much  as  she  could  manage.  But  that 
is  not  enough.  Very  early  indeed,  when  she  had  been  a  stolid- 
faced  little  girl  with  a  hot  desire  for  the  doll  possessed  by  her 
neighbour,  she  had  had  for  nurse  a  woman  who  rejoiced  in  super- 
natural events.  With  ghost  stories  of  the  most  terrifying  kind 
she  besieged  Grace's  young  heart  and  mind.  The  child  had  never 
imagination  enough  to  visualise  these  stories  in  the  true  essence, 
but  she  seized  upon  external  detail — the  blue  lights,  the  white  shim- 
mering garments,  the  moon  and  the  church  clock,  the  clanking 
chain  and  the  stain  of  blood  upon  the  board. 

These  things  were  not  for  her,  and  indeed  did  she  allow  her  fancy 
to  dwell,  for  a  moment,  upon  them  she  was  besieged  at  once  by 
so  horrid  a  panic  that  she  lost  all  control  and  self-possession.  She 
therefore  very  quickly  put  those  things  from  her  and  thenceforth 
lived  in  the  world  as  in  a  castle  surrounded  by  a  dark  moat  filled 
with  horrible  and  slimy  creatures  who  would  raise  a  head  at  her 
did  she  so  much  as  glance  their  way. 

She  decided  then  never  to  look,  and  from  a  very  early  age  those 
quarters  of  life  became  to  her  u  queer,"  indecent,  and  dangerous. 
All  the  more  she  fastened  her  grip  upon  the  things  that  she  could 
see  and  hold,  and  these  things  repaid  her  devotion  by  never  de- 

321 


322  THE  CAPTIVES 

ceiving  her  or  pretending  to  be  what  they  were  not.  She  believed 
intensely  in  forms  and  repetitions;  she  liked  everything  to  be 
where  she  expected  it  to  be,  people  to  say  the  things  that  she  ex- 
pected them  to  say,  clocks  to  strike  at  the  right  time,  and  trains 
to  be  up  to  the  minute.  With  all  this  she  could  never  be  called 
an  accurate  or  careful  woman.  She  was  radically  stupid,  stupid  in 
the  real  sense  of  the  word,  so  that  her  mind  did  not  grasp  a  new 
thought  or  fact  until  it  had  been  repeated  to  her  again  and  again, 
so  that  she  had  no  power  of  expressing  herself,  and  a  deep  inac- 
curacy about  everything  and  every  one  which  she  endeavoured  to 
cover  by  a  stream  of  aimless  lies  that  deceived  no  one.  She  would 
of  course  have  been  very  indignant  had  any  one  told  her  that  she 
was  stupid.  She  hated  what  she  called  "  clever  people  "  and  never 
had  them  near  her  if  she  could  help  it.  She  was  instantly  sus- 
picious of  any  one  who  liked  ideas  or  wanted  anything  changed. 
With  all  this  she  was  of  an  extreme  obstinacy  and  a  deep,  deep 
jealousy.  She  clung  to  what  she  had  with  the  tenacity  of  a  mol- 
lusc. What  she  had  was  in  the  main  Paul,  and  her  affection  for 
him  was  a  very  real  human  quality  in  her. 

He  was  exactly  what  she  would  have  chosen  had  she  been  allowed 
at  the  beginning  a  free  choice.  He  was  lazy  and  good-tempered 
so  that  he  yielded  to  her  on  every  possible  point,  he  was  absolutely 
orthodox  and  never  shocked  her  by  a  thought  or  a  word  out  of  the 
•ordinary,  he  really  loved  her  and  believed  in  her  and  said,  quite 
truly,  that  he  would  not  have  known  what  to  do  without  her. 

It  seems  strange  then  that  it  should  have  been  in  the  main  her 
urgency  that  led  to  the  acquisition  of  Maggie.  During  the  last 
year  she  had  begun  to  be  seriously  uneasy.  Things  were  not  what 
they  had  been.  Mrs.  Constantine  and  others  in  the  parish  were 
challenging  her  authority,  even  the  Choir  boys  were  scarcely  so 
subservient  as  they  had  been,  and,  worst  of  all,  Paul  himself  was 
strangely  restive  and  unquiet.  He  talked  at  times  of  getting  mar- 
ried, wondered  whether  she,  Grace,  wouldn't  like  some  one  to  help 
her  in  the  house,  and  even,  on  one  terrifying  occasion,  suggested 
leaving  Skeaton  altogether.  A  momentary  vision  of  what  it  would 
be  to  live  without  Paul,  to  give  up  her  kingdom  in  Skeaton,  to 
have  to  start  all  over  again  to  acquire  dominion  in  some  new 
place,  was  enough  for  Grace. 

She  must  find  Paul  a  wife,  and  she  must  find  some  one  who 
would  depend  upon  her,  look  up  to  her,  obey  her,  who  would,  inci- 
dentally, take  some  of  the  tiresome  and  monotonous  drudgery  off 
Tier  shoulders.  The  moment  she  saw  Maggie  she  was  resolved; 
here  was  just  the  creature,  a  mouse  of  a  girl,  no  parents,  no  money, 


GRACE  323 

no  appearance,  nothing  to  make  her  proud  or  above  herself,  some 
one  to  be  moulded  and  trained  in  the  way  she  should  go.  To  her 
great  surprise  she  discovered  that  Paul  was  at  once  attracted  by 
Maggie:  had  she  ever  wondered  at  anything  she  would  have  won- 
dered at  this,  but  she  decided  that  it  was  because  she  herself  had 
made  the  suggestion.  Dear  Paul,  he  was  always  so  eager  to  fall 
in  with  any  of  her  proposals. 

Her  mind  misgave  her  a  little  when  she  saw  that  he  was  really 
in  love.  What  could  he  see  in  that  plain,  gauche,  uncharming 
creature?  See  something  he  undoubtedly  did.  However,  that 
would  wear  off  very  quickly.  The  Skeaton  atmosphere  was  against 
romance  and  Paul  was  too  lazy  to  be  in  love  very  long.  Once  or 
twice  in  the  weeks  before  the  wedding  Grace's  suspicions  were 
aroused. 

Maggie  seemed  to  be  an  utter  little  heathen;  also  it  appeared 
that  she  had  had  some  strange  love  affair  that  she  had  taken  so 
seriously  as  actually  to  be  ill  over  it.  That  was  odd  and  a  little 
alarming,  but  the  child  was  very  young,  and  once  married — there 
she'd  be,  so  to  speak! 

It  was  not,  in  fact,  until  that  evening  of  her  arrival  in  Skeaton 
that  she  was  seriously  alarmed.  To  say  that  that  first  ten  minutes 
in  Paul's  study  alarmed  her  is  to  put  it  mildly  indeed.  As  she 
looked  at  the  place  where  her  mother's  portrait  had  been,  as  she 
stared  at  the  trembling  Mitch  cowering  against  Maggie's  dress, 
she  experienced  the  most  terrifying,  shattering  upheaval  since  the 
day  when  as  a  little  girl  of  six  she  had  been  faced,  as  she  had 
fancied,  with  the  dripping  ghost  of  her  great-uncle  William. 

Not  at  once,  however,  was  the  battle  to  begin.  Maggie  gave  way 
about  everything.  She  gave  way  at  first  because  she  was  so  con- 
fident of  getting  what  she  wanted  later  on.  She  never  conceived 
that  she  was  not  to  have  final  power  in  her  own  house;  Paul  had 
as  yet  denied  her  nothing.  She  moved  the  pictures  and  the  pots 
and  the  crochet  work  down  from  the  attic  and  replaced  them  where 
they  had  been — or,  nearly  replaced  them.  She  found  it  already 
rather  amusing  to  puzzle  Grace  by  changing  their  positions  from 
day  to  day  so  that  Grace  was  bewildered  and  perplexed. 

Grace  said  nothing — only  solidly  and  with  panting  noises  (she 
suffered  from  shortness  of  breath)  plodded  up  and  down  the  house, 
reassuring  herself  that  all  her  treasures  were  safe. 

Maggie,  in  fact,  enjoyed  herself  during  the  weeks  immediately 
following  Grace's  return.  Paul  seemed  tranquil  and  happy;  there 
were  no  signs  of  fresh  outbreaks  of  the  strange  passion  that  had 
so  lately  frightened  her.    Maggie  herself  found  her  duties  in  con- 


324  THE  CAPTIVES 

neetion  with  the  Church  and  the  house  easier  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. Every  one  seemed  very  friendly.  Grace  chattered  on  with 
her  aimless  histories  of  unimportant  events  and  patted  Maggie's 
hand  and  smiled  a  great  deal.  Surely  all  was  very  well.  Perhaps 
this  was  the  life  for  which  Maggie  was  intended. 

And  that  other  life  began  to  be  dim  and  faint — even  Martin  was 
a  little  hidden  and  mysterious.  Strangely  she  was  glad  of  that; 
the  only  way  that  this  could  be  carried  through  was  by  keeping 
the  other  out  of  it.  Would  the  two  worlds  mingle?  Would  the 
faces  and  voices  of  those  spirits  be  seen  and  heard  again?  Would 
they  leave  Maggie  now  or  plan  to  steal  her  back?  The  whole 
future  of  her  life  depended  on  the  answer  to  that.  .    .    . 

During  those  weeks  she  investigated  Skeaton  very  thoroughly. 
She  found  that  her  Skeaton,  the  Skeaton  of  Fashion  and  the 
Church,  was  a  very  small  affair  consisting  of  two  rows  of  villas, 
some  detached  houses  that  trickled  into  the  country,  and  a  little 
clump  of  villas  on  a  hill  over  the  sea  beyond  the  town.  There  were 
not  more  than  fifty  souls  all  told  in  this  regiment  of  Fashion, 
and  the  leaders  of  the  fifty  were  Mrs.  Constantine,  Mrs.  Maxse, 
Miss  Purves,  a  Mrs.  Tempest  (a  large  black  tragic  creature), 
and  Miss  Grace  Trenchard — and  they  had  for  their  male  supporters 
Colonel  Maxse,  Mr.  William  Tempest,  a  Mr.  Purdie  (rich  and 
idle),  and  the  Reverend  Paul.  Maggie  discovered  that  the  man- 
ners, habits,  and  even  voices  and  gestures  of  this  sacred  Fifty  were 
all  the  same.  The  only  question  upon  which  they  divided  was 
one  of  residence.  The  richer  and  finer  division  spent  several  weeks 
of  the  winter  abroad  in  places  like  Nice  and  Cannes,  and  the  poorer 
contingent  took  their  holiday  from  Skeaton  in  the  summer  in 
Glebeshire  or  the  Lake  District.  The  Constantines  and  the  Maxses 
were  very  fine  indeed  because  they  went  both  to  Cannes  in  the 
winter  and  Scotland  in  the  summer.  It  was  wonderful,  consider- 
ing how  often  Mrs.  Constantine  was  away  from  Skeaton,  how 
solemn  and  awe-inspiring  an  impression  she  made  and  retained  in 
the  Skeaton  world.  Maggie  discovered  that  unless  you  had  a  large 
house  with  independent  grounds  outside  the  town  it  was  impossible 
to  remain  in  Skeaton  during  the  summer  months.  Oh!  the 
trippers!  .  .  .  Oh!  the  trippers!  Yes,  they  were  terrible — swal- 
lowed up  the  sands,  eggshells,  niggers,  pierrots,  bathing-machines, 
vulgarity,  moonlight  embracing,  noise,  sand,  and  dust.  If  you 
were  any  one  at  all  you  did  not  stay  in  Skeaton  during  the  summer 
months — unless,  as  I  have  said,  you  were  so  grand  that  you  could 
disregard  it  altogether. 

It  happened  that  these  weeks  were  wet  and  windy  and  Maggie 


GRACE  325 

was  blown  about  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other.  There 
could  be  no  denying  that  it  was  grim  and  ugly  under  these  condi- 
tions. It  might  be  that  when  the  spring  came  there  would  be 
flowers  in  the  gardens  and  the  trees  would  break  out  into  fresh 
green  and  the  sands  would  gleam  with  mother-of-pearl  and  the 
sea  would  glitter  with  sunshine.  All  that  perhaps  would  come. 
Meanwhile  there  was  not  a  house  that  was  not  hideous,  the  wind 
tore  screaming  down  the  long  beaches  carrying  with  it  a  flurry  of 
tempestuous  rain,  whilst  the  sea  itself  moved  in  sluggish  oily  coils, 
dirt-grey  to  the  grey  horizon.  Worst  of  all  perhaps  were  the 
deserted  buildings  at  other  times  dedicated  to  gaiety,  ghosts  of 
places  they  were  with  torn  paper  flapping  against  their  sides  and 
the  wind  tearing  at  their  tin-plated  roofs.  Then  there  was  the 
desolate  little  station,  having,  it  seemed,  no  connection  with  any 
kind  of  traffic — and  behind  all  this  the  woods  howled  and  creaked 
and  whistled,  derisive,  provocative,  the  only  creatures  alive  in  all 
that  world. 

Between  the  Fashion  and  the  Place  the  Church  stood  as  a  bridge. 

Centuries  ago,  when  Skeaton  had  been  the  merest  hamlet  clus- 
tered behind  the  beach,  the  Church  had  been  there — not  the  present 
building,  looking,  poor  thing,  as  though  it  were  in  a  perpetual  state 
of  scarlet  fever,  but  a  shabby  humble  little  chapel  close  to  the  sea 
sheltered  by  the  sandy  hill. 

The  present  temple  had  been  built  about  1870  and  was  considered 
very  satisfactory.  It  was  solid  and  free  from  draughts  and  took 
the  central  heating  very  well.  The  graveyard  also  was  new  and 
shiny,  with  no  bones  in  it  remoter  than  the  memories  of  the  present 
generation  could  compass.  The  church  clock  was  a  very  late  addi- 
tion— put  up  by  subscription  five  years  ago — and  its  clamour  was 
so  up  to  date  and  smart  that  it  was  a  cross  between  the  whistle  of 
a  steam-engine  and  a  rich  and  prosperous  dinner-bell. 

All  this  was  rightly  felt  to  be  very  satisfactory.  As  Miss  Purves 
said :  "  So  far  as  the  dear  Church  goes,  no  one  had  any  right  to 
complain  about  anything." 

When  Maggie  had  first  arrived  in  Skeaton  her  duties  with  regard 
to  the  Church  were  made  quite  plain  to  her.  She  was  expected  to 
take  one  of  the  classes  in  Sunday  school,  to  attend  Choir  practice 
on  Friday  evening,  to  be  on  the  Committees  for  Old  Women's 
Comforts,  Our  Brave  Lads'  Guild,  and  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society, 
to  look  after  the  flowers  for  the  Altar,  and  to  attend  Paul's  Bible 
Class  on  Wednesdays. 

She  had  no  objection  to  any  of  these  things — they  were,  after 


326  THE  CAPTIVES 

all,  part  of  her  "job."  She  found  that  they  amused  her,  and  her 
life  must  be  full,  full,  full.  "  No  time  to  think — No  time  to 
think,"  some  little  voice  far,  far  within  her  cried.  But  on  Grace's 
return  difficulties  at  once  arose.  Grace  had,  hitherto,  done  all 
these  things.  She  had,  as  she  called  it,  "  Played  a  large  part  in 
the  life  of  our  Church."  She  was  bored  with  them  all,  the  Choir 
practices,  the  Committees,  the  Altar  flowers,  and  the  rest;  she  was 
only  too  pleased  that  Maggie  should  do  the  hard  work — it  was 
quite  fair  that  she,  Grace,  should  have  a  rest.  At  the  same  time 
she  did  not  at  all  want  to  surrender  the  power  that  doing  these 
things  had  given  her.  She  did  not  wish  Maggie  to  take  her  place, 
but  she  wanted  her  to  support  the  burden — very  difficult  this 
especially  if  you  are  not  good  at  "  thinking  things  out." 

Grace  never  could  "  think  things  out."  It  seemed  as  though 
her  thoughts  loved  wilfully  to  tease  and  confuse  her.  Then  when 
she  was  completely  tangled,  and  bewildered,  her  temper  rose,  slowly, 
stealthily,  but  with  a  mighty  force  behind  it;  suddenly  as  a  flood 
bursts  the  walls  that  have  been  trying  to  resist  it,  it  would  sweep 
the  chambers  of  her  mind,  submerging,  drowning  the  flock  of 
panic-stricken  little  ideas. 

She  then  would  *  lose  her  temper  "  so  much  to  her  own  surprise 
that  she  at  once  decided  that  some  one  else  must  be  responsible. 

A  few  days  after  her  return  she  decided  that  she  "  must  not  let 
these  things  go,"  so  she  told  Maggie  that  she  would  attend  the 
Committee  of  Old  Women's  Comforts  and  be  responsible  for  the 
Choir  practice.  But  on  her  return  to  these  functions  she  found 
that  she  was  bored  and  tired  and  cross;  they  were  really  intoler- 
able, she  had  been  doing  them  for  years  and  years  and  years.  It 
was  too  bad  that  Maggie  should  suffer  her  to  take  them  on  her 
shoulders.  What  did  Maggie  think  she  was  a  clergyman's  wife 
for?  Did  Maggie  imagine  that  there  were  no  responsibilities  at- 
tached to  her  position  ? 

Grace  did  not  say  these  things,  but  she  thought  them.  She  did 
not  of  course  admit  to  herself  that  she  wanted  Maggie  both  to  go 
and  not  to  go.  She  simply  knew  that  there  was  a  "  grievance " 
and  Maggie  was  responsible  for  it.  But  at  present  she  was 
silent.  .    .   . 

The  next  factor  in  the  rapidly  developing  situation  was  Mr. 
Toms.  One  day  early  in  April  Maggie  went  for  a  little  walk  by 
herself  along  the  lane  that  led  to  Marsden  Wood.  Marsden  Wood 
was  the  most  sinister  of  all  the  woods;  there  had  once  been  a 
murder  there,  but  even  had  there  not,  the  grim  bleakness  of  the 


GRACE  327 

trees  and  bushes,  the  absence  of  all  clear  paths  through  its  tangles 
and  thickets  made  it  a  sinister  place.  She  turned  at  the  very  edge 
of  the  wood  and  set  her  face  back  towards  Skeaton. 

The  day  had  been  wild  and  windy  with  recurrent  showers  of 
rain,  but  now  there  was  a  break,  the  chilly  April  sun  broke  through 
the  clouds  and  scattered  the  hedges  and  fields  with  primrose  light. 
Faintly  and  with  a  gentle  rhythm  the  murmur  of  the  sea  came 
across  the  land  and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  sea-salt  and  the 
fresh  scent  of  the  grass  after  rain.  Maggie  stood  for  a  moment, 
breathing  in  the  spring  air  and  watching  the  watery  blue  thread 
its  timid  way  through  banks  of  grey  cloud.  A  rich  gleam  of  sun- 
light struck  the  path  at  her  feet. 

She  saw  then,  coming  towards  her,  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
woman  was  ordinary  enough,  a  middle-aged,  prim,  stiffly  dressed 
person  with  a  pale  shy  face,  timid  in  her  walk  and  depressed  in 
mouth  and  eyes.  The  man  was  a  stout,  short,  thick-set  fellow  with 
a  rosy  smiling  face.  At  once  Maggie  noticed  his  smile.  He  was 
dressed  very  smartly  in  a  black  coat  and  waist-coat  and  pepper- 
and-salt  trousers.  His  bowler  was  cocked  a  little  to  one  side.  She 
passed  them  and  the  little  round  man,  looking  her  full  in  the  face, 
smiled  so  happily  and  with  so  radiant  an  amiability  that  she  was 
compelled  to  respond.    The  woman  did  not  look  at  her. 

Long  after  she  had  left  them  she  thought  of  the  little  man's 
smile.  There  was  something  that,  in  spite  of  herself,  reminded 
her  both  of  Uncle  Mathew  and  Martin.  She  felt  a  sudden  and 
warm  kinship,  something  that  she  had  not  known  since  her  arrival 
in  Skeaton.  Had  she  not  struggled  with  herself  every  kind  of 
reminiscence  of  her  London  life  would  have  come  crowding  about 
her.  This  meeting  was  like  the  first  little  warning  tap  upon  the 
wall.  .    .   . 

On  her  return  she  spoke  of  it. 

"Oh,"  said  Paul,  "that  must  have  been  poor  little  Mr.  Toms 
with  his  sister." 

" Poor? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Yes.  He's  queer  in  his  head,  you  know,"  said  Paul.  "  Quite 
harmless,  but  he  has  the  strangest  ideas." 

Maggie  noticed  then  that  Grace  shivered  and  the  whole  of  her 
face  worked  with  an  odd  emotion  of  horror  and  disgust. 

"  He  should  have  been  shut  up  somewhere,"  she  said.  "  It's  dis- 
graceful letting  him  walk  about  everywhere  just  like  any  one 
else." 

"  Shut  up !"  cried  Maggie.  "  Oh,  no !  I  don't  think  any  one 
ought  to  be  shut  up  for  anything." 


328  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  My  dear  Maggie !  "  said  Paul  in  his  fatherly  protecting  voice. 
"  No  prisons  ?    Think  what  would  become  of  us  all." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Maggie  impatiently,  "  I'm  not  practical  of  course, 
I  don't  know  what  one  should  do,  but  I  do  know  that  no  one 
should  be  shut  up." 

"  Chut— chut "  said  Grace.  . 

Now  this  "Chut,  chut,"  may  seem  a  very  little  thing,  but  very  J 
little  things  are  sometimes  of  great  importance.     Marriages  have  I 
been  wrecked  on  an  irritating  cough  and  happy  homes  ruined  by  J 
a  shuffle.     Grace  had  said  "  Chut,  chut,"  for  a  great  many  years 
and  to  many  people.    It  expressed  scorn  and  contempt  and  implied 
a  vast  store  of  superior  knowledge.    Grace  herself  had  no  idea  of 
the  irritating  nature  of  this  exclamation,  she  would  have  been 
entirely  amazed  did  you  explain  to  her  that  it  had  more  to  do  with 
her  unpopularity  in  Skeaton  than  any  other  thing.    She  had  even 
said  "  Chut,  chut,"  to  Mrs.  Constantine. 

But  she  said  it  to  Maggie  more  than  to  any  other  person. 
When  she  had  been  in  the  house  a  few  days  she  said  to  her 
brother : 

"  Paul,  Maggie's  much  younger  than  I  had  supposed." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,  I  do.  She  knows  nothing  about  anything.  She's  been 
nowhere.    She's  seen  nobody.  .    .    .  Poor  child." 

It  was  the  "  poor  child  "  position  that  she  now,  during  these  first 
weeks,  adopted.  She  was  very,  very  kind  to  Maggie.  As  she  ex- 
plained to  Mrs.  Maxse,  she  really  was  very  fond  of  her — she  was 
a  good  girl.  At  the  same  time.  .  .  .  Well!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Maxse 
would  understand  that  Paul  can  hardly  have  known  what  he  was 
marrying.  Ignorance!  Carelessness!  Strange  ideas!  Some  one 
from  the  centre  of  Africa  would  have  known  more  .  .  .  and  so 
on.  Nevertheless,  she  was  a  good  girl.  .  .  .  Only  she  needed 
guidance.  Fancy,  she  had  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  poor  Mr.  Toms! 
Proposed  to  call  on  his  sister.  Well,  one  couldn't  help  that.  Miss 
Toms  was  a  regular  communicant.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  .  .  .  she 
didn't  realise,  that  was  it.  Of  course,  she  had  known  all  kinds  of 
queer  people  in  London.  Paul  and  Grace  had  rescued  her.  The 
strangest  people.  No,  Maggie  was  an  orphan.  She  had  an  uncle, 
Grace  believed,  and  two  aunts  who  belonged  to  a  strange  sect. 
Sex?    No,  sect.    Very  queer  altogether." 

Mrs.  Maxse  went  home  greatly  impressed. 

"  The  girl's  undoubtedly  queer,"  she  told  her  husband. 

"  The  parson's  got  a  queer  sort  of  wife,"  Colonel  Maxse  told  his 
friends  in  the  Skeaton  Conservative  Club.    "  He  rescued  her  from 


GRACE  329 

some  odd  sort  of  life  in  London.     No.    Don't  know  what  it  was 
exactly.    Always  was  a  bit  soft,  Trenchard." 

Maggie  had  no  idea  that  Skeaton  was  discussing  her.  She 
judged  other  people  by  herself.  Meanwhile  something  occurred 
that  gave  her  quite  enough  to  think  about. 

She  had  understood  from  Grace  that  it  was  expected  of  her 
that  she  should  be  at  home  on  one  afternoon  in  the  week  to  receive 
callers.  She  thought  it  a  silly  thing  that  she  should  sit  in  the 
ugly  drawing-room  waiting  for  people  whom  she  did  not  wish  to 
see  and  who  did  not  wish  to  see  her,  but  she  was  told  that  it  was 
one  of  her  duties,  and  so  she  would  do  it.  No  one,  however,  had 
any  idea  of  the  terror  with  which  she  anticipated  these  Friday 
afternoons.  She  had  never  been  a  very  great  talker,  she  had 
nothing  much  to  say  unless  to  some  one  in  whom  she  was  inter- 
ested. She  was  frightened  lest  something  should  happen  to  the 
tea,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  all  staring  at  her  and  asking  them- 
selves why  her  hair  was  cut  short  and  why  her  clothes  didn't  fit 
better.    However,  there  it  was.    It  was  her  duty. 

One  Friday  afternoon  she  was  sitting  alone,  waiting.  The  door 
opened  and  the  maid  announced  Mrs.  Purdie.  Maggie  remembered 
that  she  had  been  told  that  Mr.  Alfred  Purdie  was  the  richest 
man  in  Skeaton,  that  he  had  recently  married,  and  was  but  now 
returned  from  his  honeymoon. 

Mrs.  Purdie  entered  and  revealed  herself  as  Caroline  Smith. 
For  a  moment,  as  Maggie  looked  upon  that  magnificent  figure,  the 
room  turned  about  her  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  She  remembered, 
as  though  some  one  were  reminding  her  from  a  long  way  off,  that 
Caroline  had  once  told  her  that  she  was  considering  the  acceptance 
of  a  rich  young  man  in  Skeaton. 

She  remembered  that  at  the  time  she  had  thought  the  coincidence 
of  Caroline  and  Paul  Trenchard  strange.  But  far  stronger  than 
any  such  memory  was  the  renewed  conviction  that  she  had  that 
fate  did  not  intend  to  leave  her  alone.  She  was  not  to  keep  the 
two  worlds  apart,  she  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  forget. 

The  sight  of  Caroline  brought  Martin  before  her  so  vividly  that 
she  could  have  cried  out.  Instead  she  stood  there,  quietly  waiting, 
and  showed  no  sign  of  any  embarrassment. 

Caroline  was  dressed  in  peach-coloured  silk  and  a  little  black 
hat.  She  was  not  confused  in  the  least.  She  seized  Maggie's  hand 
and  shook  it,  talking  all  the  time. 

"  Well  now,  I'm  sure  you're  surprised  to  see  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
perhaps  you're  not  too  glad  either.     Alfred  wanted  to  come  too, 


330  THE  CAPTIVES 

but  I  said  to  him,  'No,  Alfred,  this  will  be  just  a  little  awkward 
at  first,  for  Maggie  Trenchard's  got  a  grievance,  and  with  some 
reason,  too,  so  you'd  better  let  me  manage  it  alone  the  first  meet- 
ing.' Wasn't  I  right?  Of  course  I  was.  And  you  can  just  say 
right  out  now,  Maggie,  exactly  what's  in  your  mind.  It's  not  my 
fault  that  we're  both  in  the  same  town.  I'm  sure  you'd  much 
rather  never  set  eyes  on  me  again,  and  I'm  sure  I  can  quite  under- 
stand if  you  feel  like  that.  But  there  it  is.  I  told  you  long  ago 
in  London  that  Alfred  was  after  me,  and  I  was  in  two  minds 
about  it — but  of  course  I  didn't  dream  you  were  going  to  marry 
a  parson.  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  less  than  a 
feather  when  I  saw  it  in  the  Skeaton  News.  '  That  can't  be  my 
Margaret  Cardinal,'  I  said,  and  yet  it  seemed  so  strange  the  two 
names  and  all.  Well,  and  then  I  found  it  really  was  the  same. 
I  was  astonished.  You  of  all  people  the  wife  of  a  parson!  How- 
ever, you  know  your  own  mind  best,  and  I'm  sure  Mr.  Trenchard's 
a  very  lucky  man.  So  you  can  just  start  off  and  curse  me,  Maggie, 
as  much  as  you  like." 

The  strange  thing  was  that  as  Maggie  listened  to  this  she  felt 
a  desire  to  embrace  rather  than  curse.  Of  course  Caroline  had 
done  her  harm,  she  had,  perhaps  ruined  Martin's  life  as  well  as 
her  own,  but  the  mistake  had  been  originally  Maggie's  in  trusting 
Caroline  with  more  confidence  than  her  volatile  nature  would 
allow  her  to  hold.  And  now,  as  she  looked  at  Caroline  and  saw 
that  pretty  pink  and  white  face,  the  slim  beautiful  body,  the  grace 
and  gaiety,  and  childish  amiability,  her  whole  soul  responded. 
Here  was  a  friend,  even  though  an  indiscreet  one,  here  was  some 
one  from  home,  the  one  human  being  in  the  whole  of  Skeaton  who 
knew  the  old  places  and  the  old  people,  the  Chapel,  and  the  aunts 
— and  Martin.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  would  have  been  far 
safer  had  Caroline  not  been  there,  that  the  temptation  to  discuss 
Martin  would  be  irresistible,  that  she  would  yield  to  it,  and  that 
Caroline  was  in  no  way  whatever  to  be  trusted — she  realised  all 
these  things,  and  yet  she  was  glad. 

"  I  don't  want  to  curse  you,  Caroline,"  said  Maggie.  "  Sit  down. 
Tea  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  I  was  very  unhappy  about  what  you 
did,  but  that's  all  a  long  time  ago  now,  and  I  was  to  blame  too." 

"  Oh,  that's  just  sweet  of  you,"  said  Caroline,  running  over  and 
giving  Maggie  an  impulsive  kiss.  "  I  said  to  Alfred,  '  Maggie  may 
be  angry.  I  don't  know  how  she'll  receive  me,  I'm  sure.  She  had 
the  sweetest  nature  always,  and  it  isn't  like  her  to  bear  a  grudge. 
But  whatever  way  it  is,  I'll  have  to  take  it,  because  the  fact  is  I 
deserve  it.'     But  there  you  are,  simply  angelic  and  I'm  ever  so 


GRACE  331 

glad.  The  fact  is  I  was  ridicilous  in  those  days.  I  don't  wonder 
you  lost  your  patience  with  me,  and  it  was  just  like  your  honest 
self  to  be  so  frank  with  me.  But  marriage  has  just  taught  me 
everything.  What  I  say  is,  every  one  ought  to  be  married ;  no  one 
knows  anything  until  they're  married.  It's  amazing  what  a  dif- 
ference it  makes,  don't  you  think  so  ?  Why,  before  I  was  married 
I  used  to  chatter  on  in  the  most  ridicilous  way  (Caroline  always 
said  ridicilous)  and  now — but  there  I  go,  talking  of  myself,  and 
it's  you  I  want  to  hear  about.    Now,  Maggie,  tell  me " 

But  the  sudden  entrance  of  Grace  and  Paul  checked,  for  the 
moment,  these  confidences.  Caroline  did  not  stay  long  this  first 
time.  She  talked  a  little,  drank  some  tea,  ate  a  biscuit,  smiled  at 
Paul  and  departed.  She  felt,  perhaps,  that  Grace  did  not  approve 
of  her.  Grace  had  not  seen  her  before,  certainly  she  would  not 
approve  of  the  peach-coloured  dress  and  the  smile  at  Paul.  And 
then  the  girl  talked  too  much.  She  had  interrupted  Grace  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  her  stories. 

When  Caroline  had  departed  (after  kissing  Maggie  affection- 
ately) Grace  said: 

"And  so  you  knew  her  before,  Maggie?" 

"  I  knew  her  in  London,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  like  her,"  said  Paul.    "  A  bright  young  creature." 

"  Hum ! "  said  Grace. 

That  was  a  wonderful  spring  evening,  the  first  spring  evening 
of  the  year.  The  ugly  garden  swam  in  a  mist  faintly  cherry- 
colour;  through  the  mist  a  pale  evening  sky,  of  so  rich  a  blue  that 
it  was  almost  white,  was  shadowing  against  a  baby  moon  sharply 
gold.  The  bottles  on  the  wall  were  veiled  by  the  evening  mist;  a 
thrush  sang  in  the  little  bush  at  the  end  of  the  lawn. 

Paul  whispered  to  Maggie :  "  Come  out  into  the  garden." 

She  went  with  him,  frightened;  she  could  feel  his  arm  tremble 
against  her  waist;  his  cold  hard  fingers  caught  hers.  No  current 
ran  from  her  body  to  his.    They  were  apart,  try  as  she  may. 

When  they  had  walked  the  length  of  the  lawn  he  caught  her  close 
to  him,  put  his  hand  roughly  up  to  her  neck  and,  bending  her  head 
towards  his,  kissed  her.    She  heard  his  words,  strangled  and  fierce. 

"  Love  me,  Maggie — love  me — you  must " 

When  he  released  her,  looking  back  towards  the  dark  house,  she 
saw  Grace  standing  there  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand. 

Against  her  will  she  shared  his  feeling  of  guilt,  as,  like  children 
caught  in  a  fault,  they  turned  back  towards  the  house. 


CHAPTER  V 

the  battle  of  skeaton 

First  Year 

AFTERWARDS,  when  Maggie  looked  back  she  was  baffled. 
She  tried  to  disentangle  the  events  between  that  moment 
when  Grace,  holding  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  blinked  at  them  as  they 
came  across  the  lawn,  and  that  other  most  awful  moment  when,  in 
Paul's  study,  Grace  declared  final  and  irrevocable  war. 

Between  those  two  events  ran  the  history  of  more  than  two 
years,  and  there  was  nothing  stranger  than  the  way  that  the  scene 
in  the  garden  and  the  scene  in  the  study  seemed  to  Maggie  to  be 
close  together.  What  were  the  steps,  she  used  to  ask  herself  after- 
wards, that  led  to  those  last  months  of  fury  and  tragedy  and  dis- 
aster? Was  it  my  fault?  Was  it  hers?  Was  it  Paul's?  What 
happened?  If  I  had  not  done  this  or  that,  if  Grace  had  not  said 
— no,  it  was  hopeless.  She  would  break  off  in  despair.  Isolated 
scenes  appeared  before  her,  always  bound,  on  either  side,  by  that 
prologue  and  that  finale,  but  the  scenes  would  not  form  a  chain. 
She  could  not  connect;  she  would  remain  until  the  end  bewildered 
as  to  Grace's  motives.  She  never,  until  the  day  of  her  death,  was 
to  understand  Grace. 

"  She  was  angry  for  such  little  things,"  she  said  afterwards. 
"  She  hated  me  to  be  myself."  The  two  years  in  retrospect  seemed 
to  have  passed  with  incredible  swiftness,  the  months  that  followed 
them  were  heavy  and  slow  with  trouble.  But  from  the  very  first, 
that  is,  from  the  moment  when  Grace  saw  Paul  kiss  Maggie  in 
the  evening  garden,  battle  was  declared.  Maggie  might  not  know 
it,  but  it  was  so — and  Grace  knew  it  very  well. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  in  Grace's  defence  that  she  gave  Maggie 
every  chance.  She  marvelled  at  her  own  patience.  For  two  years 
after  that  moment,  when  she  decided  that  Maggie  was  "  queer," 
and  that  her  beloved  Paul  was  in  real  danger  of  his  losing  his  soul 
because  of  that  "  queerness,"  she  held  her  hand.  She  was  not  natu- 
rally a  patient  woman — she  was  not  introspective  enough  to  be 
that — and  she  held  no  brief  for  Maggie.  Nevertheless  for  two 
whole  years  she  held  her  hand.  .    .    . 

They  were,  all  three,  in  that  ugly  house,  figures  moving  in  the 

332 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR         333 

dark.  Grace  6imply  knew,  as  the  months  passed,  that  she  disliked 
and  feared  Maggie  more  and  more;  Paul  knew  that  as  the  months 
passed — well,  what  he  knew  will  appear  in  the  following  pages. 
And  Maggie?  She  only  knew  that  it  needed  all  her  endurance 
and  stubborn  will  to  force  herself  to  accept  this  life  as  her  life. 
She  must — she  must.  To  give  way  meant  to  run  away,  and  to 
run  away  meant  to  long  for  what  she  could  not  have,  and  loneli- 
ness and  defeat.  She  would  make  this  into  a  success;  she  would 
care  for  Paul  although  she  could  not  give  him  all  that  he  needed. 
She  would  and  she  could.  .  .  .  Every  morning  as  she  lay  awake 
in  the  big  double-bed  with  the  brass  knobs  at  the  bed-foot  winking 
at  her  in  the  early  light  she  vowed  that  she  would  justify  her 
acceptance  of  the  man  who  lay  sleeping  so  peacefully  beside  her. 
Poor  child,  her  battle  with  Grace  was  to  teach  her  how  far  her 
will  and  endurance  could  carry  her.  .    .    . 

Grace,  on  her  side,  was  not  a  bad  woman,  she  was  simply  a 
stupid  one.  She  disliked  Maggie  for  what  seemed  to  her  most 
admirable  reasons  and,  as  that  dislike  slowly,  slowly  turned  into 
hatred,  her  self-justification  only  hardened. 

Until  that  moment,  when  she  saw  a  faded  patch  of  wall-paper 
on  the  wall  instead  of  her  mother's  portrait,  she  had  no  doubts 
whatever  about  the  success  of  what  she  considered  her  choice. 
Maggie  was  a  "  dear,"  young,  ignorant,  helpless,  but  the  very  wife 
for  Paul.  Then  slowly,  slowly,  the  picture  changed.  Maggie  was 
obstinate,  Maggie  was  careless,  Maggie  was  selfish,  idle,  lazy, 
irreligious — at  last,  Maggie  was  "queer." 

Then,  when  in  the  dusk  of  that  summer  evening,  she  saw  Paul 
kiss  Maggie,  as  the  moths  blundered  about  her  lamp,  her  stolid 
unimaginative  heart  was  terrified.  This  girl,  who  was  she?  What 
had  she  been  before  they  found  her?  What  was  this  strange  pas- 
sion in  Paul  isolating  him  from  her,  his  sister?  This  girl  was 
dangerous  to  them  all — a  heathen.  They  had  made  a  terrible 
mistake.  Paul  had  been  from  the  first  bewitched  by  some  strange 
spell,  and  she,  hi3  sister,  had  aided  the  witch. 

And  yet,  to  her  credit  be  it  remembered,  for  two  years,  she 
fought  her  fears,  superstitions,  jealousies,  angers.  That  can  have 
been  no  easy  thing  for  a  woman  who  had  always  had  her  own  way. 
But  Maggie  helped  her.  There  were  many  days  during  that  first 
year  at  any  rate  when  Grace  thought  that  the  girl  was,  after 
all,  only  the  simple  harmless  child  that  she  had  first  found 
her. 

It  was  so  transparently  clear  that  Maggie  bore  no  malice  against 
any  one  in  the  world,  that  when  she  angered  Grace  she  did  so 


334  THE  CAPTIVES 

always  by  accident,  never  by  plan — it  was  only  unfortunate  that 
the  accidents  should  occur  so  often. 

Maggie's  days  were  from  the  very  first  of  the  utmost  regularity. 
Breakfast  at  8.30,  then  an  interview  with  the  cook  (Grace  generally 
in  attendance  here),  then  shopping  (with  Grace),  luncheon  at  1.30, 
afternoon,  paying  calls  or  receiving  them,  dinner  7.45,  and  after 
dinner,  reading  a  book  while  Paul  and  Grace  played  bezique,  or, 
if  Paul  was  busy  upon  a  sermon  or  a  letter  (he  wrote  letters  very 
slowly),  patience  with  Grace.  This  regular  day  was  varied  with 
meetings,  choir  practices,  dinner-parties,  and  an  occasional  Penny 
Reading. 

In  this  framework  of  the  year  it  would  have  appeared  that 
there  was  very  little  that  could  breed  disturbance.  There  were, 
however,  little  irritations.  Maggie  would  have  given  a  great  deal 
could  she  have  been  allowed  to  interview  the  cook  in  the  morning 
alone. 

It  would  seem  impossible  to  an  older  person  that  Grace's  pres- 
ence could  so  embarrass  Maggie ;  it  embarrassed  her  to  the  terrible 
extent  of  driving  every  idea  out  of  her  head. 

When  Maggie  had  stammered  and  hesitated  and  at  last  allowed, 
the  cook  to  make  a  suggestion,  Grace  would  say.  "You  mustn't 
leave  it  all  to  cook,  dear.    Now  what  about  a  nice  shepherd's  pie  ? " 

The  cook,  who  hated  Grace,  would  toss  her  head. 

"  Impossible  to-day,  Mum.  .    .    .  Quite  impossible." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  Maggie  would  say. 

This  was  the  cook's  opportunity. 

"  Well,  for  you,  Mum,  I'll  see  if  it  can't  be  managed.  Difficult 
as  it  is." 

Grace's  anger  boiled  over. 

"  That  woman  must  go,"  she  insisted. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Maggie. 

Cook  after  cook  appeared  and  vanished.    They  all  hated  Grace. 

"  You're  not  very  good  at  keeping  servants,  are  you,  Maggie, 
dear  ? "  said  Grace. 

Then  there  was  the  shopping.  Grace's  conversation  was  the  real 
trouble  here.  Grace's  stories  had  seemed  rather  a  joke  in  London, 
soon,  in  Skeaton,  they  became  a  torture.  From  the  vicarage  to 
the  High  Street  was  not  far,  but  it  was  far  enough  for  Grace's 
narrative  powers  to  stretch  their  legs  and  get  a  healthy  appetite  for 
the  day's  work.  Grace  walked  very  slowly,  because  of  her  painful 
breathing.  Her  stout  stolid  figure  in  its  stiff  clothes  (the  skirt 
rather  short,  thick  legs  in  black  stockings  and  large  flat  boots), 
marched  along.     She  had  a  peculiar  walk,  planting  each  foot  on 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        335 

the  ground  with  deliberate  determination  as  though  she  were 
squashing  a  malignant  beetle,  she  was  rather  short-sighted,  but  did 
not  wear  glasses,  because,  as  she  said  to  Maggie,  "  one  need  not 
look  peculiar  until  one  must."  Her  favourite  head-gear  was  a 
black  straw  hat  with  a  rather  faded  black  ribbon  and  a  huge  pin 
stuck  skewer-wise  into  it.    This  pin  was  like  a  dagger. 

She  peered  around  her  as  she  walked,  and  for  ever  enquired  of 
Maggie,  "  who  that  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  road."  Maggie,  of 
course,  did  not  know,  and  there  began  then  a  long  cross-questioning 
as  to  colour,  clothes,  height,  smile  or  frown.  Nothing  was  too 
small  to  catch  Grace's  interest  but  nothing  caught  it  for  long. 
Maggie,  at  the  end  of  her  walk  felt  as  though  she  were  beset  by  a 
whirl  of  little  buzzing  flies.  She  noticed  that  Paul  had,  from 
long  habit,  learnt  to  continue  his  own  thoughts  during  Grace's 
stories,  and  she  also  tried  to  do  this,  but  she  was  not  clever  at  it 
because  Grace  would  suddenly  stop  and  say,  "  Where  was  I, 
Maggie?"  and  then  when  Maggie  was  confused  regard  her  sus- 
piciously, narrowing  her  eyes  into  little  thin  points.  The  shop- 
ping was  difficult  because  Grace  would  stand  at  Maggie's  elbow 
and  say :  "  Now,  Maggie,  this  is  your  affair,  isn't  it  ?  You  decide 
what  you  want,"  and  then  when  Maggie  had  decided,  Grace  simply, 
to  show  her  power,  would  say :  "  Oh,  I  don't  think  we'd  better  have 
that.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think  we'll  have  that.  Will  you  show  us 
something  else,  please  ? " — and  so  they  had  to  begin  all  over 
again. 

Nevertheless,  throughout  their  first  summer  Maggie  was  almost 
happy;  not  quite  happy,  some  silent  but  persistent  rebellion  at  the 
very  centre  of  her  heart  prevented  her  complete  happiness.  What 
she  really  felt  was  that  half  of  her — the  rebellious,  questioning, 
passionate  half  of  her — was  asleep,  and  that  at  all  costs,  whatever 
occurred,  she  must  keep  it  asleep.  That  was  her  real  definite 
memory  of  her  first  year — that,  through  it  all,  she  was  wilfully, 
deliberately  drugged. 

Every  one  thought  Paul  very  strange  that  summer.  Mr. 
Flaunders,  the  curate,  told  Miss  Purves  that  he  was  very  "odd." 
"  He  was  always  the  most  tranquil  man — a  sunny  nature,  as  you 
know,  Miss  Purves.  Well  now,  I  assure  you,  he's  never  the  same 
from  one  minute  to  another.  His  temper  is  most  uncertain,  and 
one  never  can  tell  of  what  he's  thinking.  You  know  he  took  the 
Collects  in  the  wrong  order  last  Sunday,  and  last  night  he  read 
the  wrong  lesson.  Two  days  ago  he  was  quite  angry  with  me  be- 
cause I  suggested  another  tune  for  'Lead  Kindly  Light' — unlike 
himself,  unlike  himself." 


336  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  To  what  do  you  attribute  this,  Mr.  Flaunders  ? "  said  Miss 
Purves.    *  You  know  our  vicar  so  well." 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  sighing. 

"  Can  it  be  his  marriage  ? "  said  Miss  Purves. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  flushing,  "  that  it  can  be  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Mrs.  Trenchard.  That's  a  fine  woman,  Miss 
Purves,  a  fine  woman." 

"  She  seems  a  little  strange,"  said  Miss  Purves.  "  Why  doesn't 
she  let  her  hair  grow  ?    It's  hardly  Christian  as  it  is." 

"  It's  her  health,  I  expect,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders. 

Paul  was  very  gentle  and  good  to  Maggie  all  that  summer,  better 
to  her  than  any  human  being  had  ever  been  before.  She  became 
very  fond  of  him,  and  yet  it  was  not,  apparently,  her  affection  that 
he  wanted.  He  seemed  to  be  for  ever  on  the  verge  of  asking  her 
some  question  and  then  checking  himself.  He  was  suddenly  silent ; 
she  caught  him  looking  at  her  in  odd,  furtive  ways. 

He  made  love  to  her  and  then  suddenly  checked  himself,  going 
off,  leaving  her  alone.  During  these  months  she  did  everything  she 
could  for  him.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  satisfying  him,  because 
she  could  give  him  only  affection  and  not  love.  But  everything 
that  he  wanted  her  to  do  she  did.  And  they  never,  through  all 
those  summer  months,  had  one  direct  honest  conversation.  They 
were  afraid. 

She  began  to  see,  very  clearly,  his  faults.  His  whole  nature  was 
easy,  genial,  and,  above  all,  lazy.  He  liked  to  be  liked,  and  she 
was  often  astonished  at  the  pleasure  with  which  he  received  com- 
pliments. He  had  a  conceit  of  himself,  not  as  a  man  but  as  a 
clergyman,  and  she  knew  that  nothing  pleased  him  so  much  as 
when  people  praised  his  "  good-natured  humanity." 

She  saw  him  "play-acting,"  as  she  called  it,  that  is,  bringing 
forward  a  succession  of  little  tricks,  a  jolly  laugh,  an  enthusiastic 
opinion,  a  pretence  of  humility,  a  man-of-the-world  air,  all  things 
not  very  bad  in  themselves,  but  put  on  many  years  ago,  subcon- 
sciously as  an  actor  puts  on  powder  and  paint.  She  saw  that  he 
was  especially  sensitive  to  lay  opinion,  liked  to  be  thought  a  good 
fellow  by  the  laymen  in  the  place.  To  be  popular  she  was  afraid 
that  he  sometimes  sacrificed  his  dignity,  his  sincerity  and  his  pride. 
But  he  was  really  saved  in  this  by  his  laziness.  He  was  in  fact 
too  lazy  to  act  energetically  in  his  pursuit  of  popularity,  and  the 
temptation  to  sink  into  the  dirty  old  chair  in  his  study,  smoke  a 
pipe  and  go  to  sleep,  hindered  again  and  again  his  ambition.  He 
had,  as  so  many  clergymen  have,  a  great  deal  of  the  child  in  him, 
a  remoteness  from  actual  life,  and  a  tremendous  ignorance  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        337 

rough-and-tumble  brutality  and  indecency  of  things.  It  had  not 
been  difficult  for  Grace,  because  of  his  laziness,  his  childishness, 
and  his  harmless  conceited  good-nature  to  obtain  a  very  real  do- 
minion over  him,  and  until  now  that  dominion  had  never  seriously 
been  threatened. 

Now,  however,  new  impulses  were  stirring  in  his  soul.  Maggie 
saw  it,  Grace  saw  it,  before  the  end  of  the  summer  the  whole  parish 
saw  it.  He  was  uneasy,  dissatisfied,  suffering  under  strange  moods 
whose  motives  he  concealed  from  all  the  world.  In  his  sleep  ho 
cried  Maggie's  name  with  a  passion  that  was  a  new  voice  in  him. 
When  she  awoke  and  heard  it  she  trembled,  and  then  lay  very 
still.  .    .    . 

And  what  a  summer  that  was !  To  Maggie  who  had  never,  even 
in  London,  mingled  with  crowds  it  was  an  incredible  invasion. 
The  invasion  was  incredible,  in  the  first  place,  because  of  the  sud- 
denness with  which  it  fell  upon  Skeaton.  One  day  Maggie  noticed 
that  announcements  were  pasted  on  to  the  Skeaton  walls  of  the 
coming  of  a  pierrot  troupe — "  The  Mig-Mags."  There  was  a  gay 
picture  of  fine  beautiful  pierrettes  and  fine  stout  pierrots  all  smil- 
ing together  in  a  semi-circle.  Then  on  another  hoarding  it  was 
announced  that  the  Theatre  Royal,  Skeaton,  would  shortly  start  its 
summer  season,  and  would  begin  with  that  famous  musical  comedy, 
"  The  Girl  from  Bobo's." 

Then  the  Pier  Theatre  put  forward  its  claim  with  a  West  End 
comedy.  The  Royal  Marine  Band  announced  that  it  would  play 
(weather  permitting)  in  the  Pergola  on  the  Leas  every  afternoon, 
4.30-6.  Other  signs  of  new  life  were  the  Skeaton  Roller-Skating 
Rink,  The  Piccadilly  Cinema,  Concerts  in  the  Town  Hall,  and 
Popular  Lectures  in  the  Skeaton  Institute.  There  was  also  a  word 
here  and  there  about  Wanton's  Bathing  Machines,  Hutton's 
Donkeys,  and  Milton  and  Rowe's  Char-a-bancs. 

Then,  on  a  sunny  day  in  June  the  invasion  began.  The  little 
railway  by  the  sea  was  only  a  loop-line  that  connected  Skeaton 
with  Lane-on-Sea,  Frambell,  and  Hooton.  The  main  London  line 
had  its  Skeaton  station  a  little  way  out  of  the  town,  and  the 
station  road  to  the  beach  passed  the  vicarage.  Maggie  soon  learnt 
to  know  the  times  when  the  excursion  trains  would  pour  their 
victims  on  to  the  hot,  dry  road.  Early  in  the  afternoon  was  one 
time,  and  she  would  see  them  eagerly,  excitedly  hurrying  to  the 
sea,  fathers  and  mothers  and  babies,  lovers  and  noisy  young  men 
and  shrieking  girls. 

Then  in  the  evening  she  would  see  them  return,  some  cross,  some 
too  tired  to  speak,  some  happy  and  singing,  some  arguing  and  dis- 


338  THE  CAPTIVES 

puting,  babies  crying — all  hurrying,  hurrying  lest  the  train  should 
be  missed. 

At  first  she  would  not  penetrate  to  the  beach.  She  understood 
from  Paul  and  Grace  that  one  did  not  go  to  the  beach  during 
the  summer  months;  at  any  rate,  not  the  popular  beach.  There 
was  Merton  Sand  two  miles  away.  One  might  go  there  ...  it 
was  always  deserted.  This  mysterious  "  one  "  fascinated  Maggie's 
imagination.  So  many  times  a  day  Grace  said  "  Oh,  I  don't 
think  one  ought  to."  Maggie  heard  again  and  again  about 
the  trippers,  "  Oh,  one  must  keep  away  from  there,  you 
know." 

In  fact  the  Skeaton  aristocracy  retired  with  shuddering  gestures 
into  its  own  castle.  Life  became  horribly  dull.  The  Maxses,  the 
Constantines,  and  the  remainder  of  the  Upper  Ten  either  went 
away  or  hid  themselves  in  their  grounds. 

Once  or  twice  there  would  be  a  tennis  party ;  then  silence.  .   .   . 

This  summer  was  a  very  hot  one;  the  little  garden  was  stifling 
and  the  glass  bottles  cracked  in  the  sun. 

"  I  want  to  get  out.  I  want  to  get  out,"  cried  Maggie — so  she 
went  down  to  the  sea.  She  went  surreptitiously;  this  was  the  first 
surreptitious  thing  she  had  done.  She  gazed  from  the  Promenade 
that  began  just  beyond  the  little  station  and  ran  the  length  of  the 
town  down  upon  the  sands.  The  beach  was  a  small  one  compared 
with  the  great  stretches  of  Merton  and  Buquay,  and  the  space  was 
covered  now  so  thickly  with  human  beings  that  the  sand  was 
scarcely  visible.  It  was  a  bright  afternoon,  hot  but  tempered  with 
a  little  breeze.  The  crowd  bathed,  paddled,  screamed,  made  sand- 
castles,  lay  sleeping,  flirting,  eating  out  of  paper  bags,  reading, 
quarrelling.  Here  were  two  niggers  with  banjoes,  then  a  stout 
lady  with  a  harmonium,  then  a  gentleman  drawing  pictures  on  the 
sand;  here  again  a  man  with  sweets  on  a  tray,  here,  just  below 
Maggie,  a  funny  old  woman  with  a  little  hut  where  ginger-beer  and 
such  things  were  sold.  The  noise  was  deafening;  the  wind  stirred 
the  sand  curiously  so  that  it  blew  up  and  about  in  little  wreaths 
and  spirals.  Everything  and  everybody  seemed  to  be  covered  with 
the  grit  of  this  fine  small  sand;  it  was  in  Maggie's  eyes,  nose,  and 
mouth  as  she  watched. 

She  hated  the  place — the  station,  the  beach,  the  town,  and  the 
woods — even  more  than  she  had  done  before.  She  hated  the  place 
— but  she  loved  the  people. 

The  place  was  sneering,  self-satisfied,  contemptuous,  inhuman, 
like  some  cynical,  debased  speculator  making  a  sure  profit  out  of 
the  innocent  weaknesses  of  human  nature.     As  she  turned  and 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR         339 

looked  she  could  see  the  whole  ugly  town  with  the  spire  of  St. 
John's — Paul's  church,  raised  self -righteously  above  it. 

The  town  was  like  a  prison  hemmed  in  by  the  dark  woods  and 
the  oily  sea.  She  felt  a  sudden  terrified  consciousness  of  her  own 
imprisonment.  It  was  perhaps  from  that  moment  that  she  began 
to  be  definitely  unhappy  in  her  own  life,  that  she  realised  with  that 
sudden  inspiration  that  is  given  to  us  on  occasion,  how  hostile 
Grace  was  becoming,  how  strange  and  unreal  was  Paul,  and  how 
far  away  was  every  one  else ! 

Just  below  her  on  the  sand  a  happy  family  played — some  babies, 
two  little  boys  digging,  the  father  smoking,  his  hat  tilted  over  his 
eyes  against  the  sun,  the  mother  finding  biscuits  in  a  bag  for  the 
youngest  infant.  It  was  a  very  merry  family  and  full  of  laughter. 
The  youngest  baby  looked  up  and  saw  Maggie  standing  all  alone 
there,  and  crowed.  Then  all  the  family  looked  up,  the  boys  sus- 
pended their  digging,  father  tilted  back  his  hat,  the  mother  shyly 
smiled. 

Maggie  smiled  back,  and  then,  overcome  by  so  poignant  a  feeling 
of  loneliness,  tempted,  too,  almost  irresistibly  to  run  down  the 
steps,  join  them  on  the  sand,  build  castles,  play  with  the  babies, 
she  hurried  away  lest  she  should  give  way. 

"I  must  be  pretending  at  being  married,"  she  thought  to  her- 
self. "I  don't  feel  married  at  all.  I'm  not  natural.  If  I  were 
sitting  on  the  sand  digging  I'd  be  quite  natural.  No  wonder  Grace 
thinks  me  tiresome.  But  how  does  one  get  older  and  grown  up? 
What  is  one  to  do?" 

She  did  not  trust  herself  to  go  down  to  the  sands  again  that 
summer.  The  autumn  came,  the  woods  turned  to  gold,  the  sea  was 
flurried  with  rain,  and  the  Church  began  to  fill  the  horizon.  The 
autumn  and  the  winter  were  the  times  of  the  Church's  High  Fes- 
tival. Paul,  as  though  he  were  aware  that  he  had,  during  these 
last  months,  been  hovering  about  strange  places  and  peering  into 
dark  windows,  busied  himself  about  the  affairs  of  his  parish  with 
an  energy  that  surprised  every  one. 

Maggie  was  aware  of  a  number  of  young  women  of  whom  before 
she  had  been  unconscious.  Miss  Carmichael,  Misses  Mary  and 
Jane  Bethel,  Miss  Clarice  Hendon,  Miss  Polly  Jones  .  .  .  some 
of  these  pretty  girls,  all  of  them  terribly  modern,  strident,  self- 
assured,  scornful,  it  seemed  to  Maggie.  At  first  she  was  frightened 
of  them  as  she  had  never  been  frightened  of  any  one  before.  They 
did  look  at  her,  of  course,  as  though  they  thought  her  strange, 
and  then  they  soon  discovered  that  she  knew  nothing  at  all  about 
life. 


340  THE  CAPTIVES 

Their  two  chief  employments,  woven  in,  as  it  were,  to  the  web  of 
their  church  assistance,  were  Love  and  Mockery — flirtations, 
broken  engagements,  refusals,  acceptances,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
jokes  about  everybody  and  everything.  Maggie  soon  discovered  that 
Grace  was  one  of  their  favourite  Aunt  Sallies;  this  made  her  very 
;ingry,  and  she  showed  so  plainly  her  indignation  on  the  first 
occasion  of  their  wit  that  they  never  laughed  at  Grace  in  Maggie's 
presence  again. 

Maggie  felt,  after  this,  very  tender  and  sympathetic  towards 
Grace,  until  she  discovered  that  her  good  sister-in-law  was  quite 
unaware  that  any  one  laughed  at  her  and  would  have  refused  to 
believe  it  had  she  been  told.  At  the  same  time  there  went  strangely 
with  this  confidence  an  odd  perpetual  suspicion.  Grace  was  for 
ever  on  guard  against  laughter,  and  nothing  made  her  more  in- 
dignant than  to  come  into  a  room  and  see  that  people  suddenly 
ceased  their  conversation.  Maggie,  however,  did  try  this  autumn 
to  establish  friendly  relations  with  Grace.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it 
was  the  little  things  that  were  against  the  friendliness  rather  than 
the  big  ones.  How  she  seriously  blamed  herself  for  an  irritation 
that  was  really  childish.  Who,  for  instance,  a  grown  woman  and 
married,  could  do  other  than  blame  herself  for  being  irritated  by 
Grace's  habit  of  not  finishing  her  sentences.    Grace  would  say: 

"  Maggie,  did  you  remember  to — oh  well,  it  doesn't  matter " 

"  Remember  what,  Grace  ? " 

"  No,  really  it  doesn't  matter.    It  was  only  that " 

"  But  Grace,  do  tell  me,  because  otherwise  you'll  be  blaming  me 
for  something  I  ought  to  have  done." 

"  Blaming  you !  Why,  Maggie,  to  hear  you  talk  any  one  would 
think  that  I  was  always  scolding  you.  Of  course  if  that's  what 
you  feel " 

u  No,  no,  I  don't.  But  I'm  so  careless.  I  forget  things  so.  I 
don't  want  to  forget  something  that  I  ought  to  do." 

"  Yes,  you  are  careless,  Maggie.  That's  quite  true.  It's  one  of 
your  faults." 

(Strange  how  willing  we  are  ourselves  to  admit  a  fault  and 
irritated  when  a  friend  agrees  about  it  with  us.) 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  always  careless,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Often  you  are,  dear,  aren't  you  ?  You  must  learn.  I'm  sure 
you'll  improve  in  time.     I  wonder  whether — but  no,  I  decided  I 

wouldn't  bother,   didn't  I?     Still  perhaps,   after  all No,   I 

daresay  it's  wiser  to  leave  it  alone." 

Another  little  thing  that  the  autumn  emphasised  was  Grace's 
inability  to  discover  when  a  complaint  or  a  remonstrance  was  de- 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR         341 

cently  deceased.  One  evening  Paul,  going  out  in  a  hurry,  asked 
Maggie  to  give  Grace  the  message  that  Evensong  would  be  at  6.30 
instead  of  7  that  day.  Maggie  forgot  to  give  the  message  and 
Grace  arrived  at  the  Church  during  the  reading  of  the  second 
lesson. 

"  Oh  Grace,  I'm  so  sorry!  "  said  Maggie. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Grace;  "but  how  you  could  forget, 
Maggie,  is  so  strange!  Do  try  not  to  forget  things.  I  know  it 
worries  Paul.  For  myself  I  don't  care,  although  I  do  value  punc- 
tuality and  memory — I  do  indeed.  What  I  mean  is  that  it  isn't 
for  my  own  happiness  that  I  mind " 

"  I  don't  want  to  forget,"  said  Maggie.  "One  would  think  to 
hear  you,  Grace,  that  you  imagine  I  like  forgetting." 

"  Really,  Maggie,"  said  Grace,  "  I  don't  think  that's  quite  the 
way  to  speak  to  me." 

And  again  and  again  throughout  the  long  winter  this  little 
episode  figured. 

"  You'll  remember  to  be  punctual,  won't  you,  Maggie  ?  Not  like 
the  time  when  you  forgot  to  tell  me." 

"  You'll  forgive  me  reminding  you,  Maggie,  but  I  didn't  want  it 
to  be  like  the  time  you  forgot  to  give  me " 

"  Oh,  you'd  better  not  trust  to  Maggie,  Paul.  Only  the  other 
day  when  you  gave  her  the  message  about  Evensong " 

Grace  meant  no  harm  by  this.  Her  mind  moved  slowly  and  was 
entangled  by  a  vast  quantity  of  useless  lumber.  She  was  really 
shocked  by  carelessness  and  inaccuracy  because  she  was  radically 
careless  and  inaccurate  herself  but  didn't  know  it. 

"  If  there's  one  thing  I  value  it's  order,"  she  would  say,  but  in 
struggling  to  remember  superficial  things  she  forgot  all  essentials. 
Her  brain  moved  just  half  as  slowly  as  everything  else. 

That  winter  was  warm  and  muggy,  with  continuous  showers  of 
warm  rain  that  seemed  to  change  into  mud  in  the  air  as  it  fell. 

The  Church  was  filled  with  the  clammy  mist  of  its  central 
heating.  Maggie,  as  she  sat  through  service  after  service,  watched 
one  headache  race  after  another.  The  air  was  full  of  headache; 
she  asked  once  that  a  window  might  be  kept  open.  "  That  would 
mean  Death  in  Skeaton.  You  don't  understand  the  Skeaton  air," 
said  Grace. 

"  That's  because  I  don't  get  enough  of  it,"  said  Maggie.  She 
found  herself  looking  back  to  the  Chapel  services  with  wistful 
regret.  What  had  there  been  there  that  was  not  here  ?  Here  every- 
thing was  ordered,  arranged,  in  decent  sequence,  in  regular  sym- 
metry and  progression.    And  yet  no  one  seemed  to  Maggie  to  listen 


342  THE  CAPTIVES 

to  what  they  were  saying,  and  no  one  thought  of  the  meaning  of 
the  words  that  they  used. 

And  if  they  did,  of  what  use  would  it  be?  The  affair  was  all 
settled ;  heaven  was  arrayed,  parcelled  out,  its  very  streets  and 
courts  mapped  and  described.  It  was  the  destination  of  every  one 
in  the  building  as  surely  as  though  they  were  travelling  to  London 
by  the  morning  express.  They  were  sated  with  knowledge  of  their 
destiny — no  curiosity,  no  wonder,  no  agitation,  no  fear.  Even  the 
words  of  the  most  beautiful  prayers  had  ceased  to  have  any  mean- 
ing because  the  matter  had  been  settled  so  long  ago  and  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  How  that  Chapel  had  throbbed  with 
expectation,  with  amaze,  with  curiosity,  with  struggle!  Foolish 
much  of  it  perhaps,  stifling  it  had  seemed  then  in  its  superstition. 
Maggie  had  been  afraid  then,  so  afraid  that  she  could  not  sleep 
at  nights.    How  she  longed  now  for  that  fear  to  return  to  her ! 

At  this  point  she  would  discover  that  she  was  beckoning  back 
to  her  the  figures  of  that  other  world.  They  must  not  come  .  .  . 
the  two  worlds  must  not  join  or  she  was  lost  .  .  .  she  turned  her 
back  from  her  memories  and  her  desires. 

During  this  winter  there  were  the  two  affairs  of  Mr.  Toms  and 
Caroline. 

Maggie  carried  out  her  resolve  of  calling  on  Mr.  Toms.  She  did 
it  one  dark  afternoon  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  moved,  it  must 
be  confessed,  partly  by  a  sense  of  exasperation  with  Grace.  Grace 
had  been  that  day  quite  especially  tiresome.  She  had  a  cold,  and 
a  new  evening  dress  had  cost  twice  as  much  as  it  ought  to  have 
done.  Mitch  had  broken  into  eczema,  and  Mrs.  Constantine  had 
overruled  her  at  a  committee  meeting.  With  a  flood  of  discon- 
nected talk  she  had  overwhelmed  Maggie  until  the  girl  felt  as 
though  her  head  had  been  thrust  into  a  bag  of  flour.  Through  it 
all  there  had  been  an  undercurrent  of  complaint  as  though  Maggie 
were  responsible. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Grace  declared  that  her  head  was  split- 
ting and  retired  to  her  bedroom.  Maggie,  in  a  state  of  blinded  and 
deafened  exasperation,  remembered  Mr.  Toms  and  decided  to  call 
on  him.  She  found  a  neat  little  house  standing  in  a  neat  little 
garden  near  the  sea  just  beyond  the  end  of  the  Promenade,  or 
The  Leas,  as  the  real  Skeatonian  always  called  it.  Miss  Toms  and 
Mr.  Toms  were  sitting  in  a  very  small  room  with  a  large  fire,  a  pale 
grey  wallpaper,  and  a  number  of  brightly-painted  wooden  toys  ar- 
ranged on  a  shelf  running  round  the  room.  The  toys  were  of  all 
kinds — a  farm,  cows  and  sheep,  tigers  and  lions,  soldiers  and  can- 
non, a  church  and  a  butcher's  shop,  little  green  tufted  trees,  and  a 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR         343 

Noah's  ark.  Mr.  Toms  was  sitting,  neat  as  a  pin,  smiling  in  an 
armchair  beside  the  fire,  and  Miss  Toms  near  him  was  reading 
aloud. 

Maggie  saw  at  once  that  her  visit  embarrassed  Miss  Toms 
terribly.  It  was  an  embarrassment  that  she  understood  perfectly, 
so  like  her  own  feelings  on  so  many  occasions.  This  put  her  at 
once  at  her  ease,  and  she  was  the  old,  simple,  direct  Maggie,  her 
face  eager  with  kindness  and  understanding.  Mr.  Toms  smiled 
perpetually  but  shook  hands  like  the  little  gentleman  he  was. 

Maggie,  studying  Miss  Toms'  face,  saw  that  it  was  lined  with 
trouble — an  ugly  face,  grave,  severe,  but  brave  and  proud.  Maggie 
apologised  for  not  coming  before. 

"  I  would  have  come "  she  began. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  apologise,"  said  Miss  Toms  brusquely.  "  They 
don't  call  on  us  here,  and  we  don't  want  them  to." 

"  They  don't  call,"  said  Mr.  Toms  brightly,  "  because  they  know 
I'm  queer  in  the  head,  and  they're  afraid  I  shall  do  something  odd. 
They  told  you  I  was  queer  in  the  head,  didn't  they  ? " 

Strangely  enough  this  statement  of  his  "queerness,"  although 
it  brought  a  lump  into  Maggie's  throat,  did  not  disturb  or  confuse 
her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  they  did.  I  asked  who  you  were  after  I  had 
seen  you  in  the  road  that  day." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  least  dangerous,"  said  Mr.  Toms.  "  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  Certain  things  seem  odd  to  me  that  don't  seem 
odd  to  other  people — that's  all." 

"  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Trenchard,"  said  Miss  Toms,  speaking  very 
fast  and  flushing  as  she  spoke,  "  that  we  are  very  happy  by  our- 
selves, my  brother  and  I.  He  is  the  greatest  friend  I  have  in  the 
world,  and  I  am  his.  We  are  quite  sufficient  for  one  another. 
I  don't  want  to  seem  rude,  and  it's  kind  of  you  to  have  come, 
but  it's  better  to  leave  us  alone — it  is  indeed." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  smiling.  "You  see,  I'm  a 
little  queer  myself — at  least  I  think  that  most  of  the  people  here 
are  coming  to  that  conclusion.  I'm  sure  I'm  more  queer  than  your 
brother.  At  any  rate  I  can't  do  you  any  harm,  and  we  may  as  well 
give  it  a  trial,  mayn't  we?" 

Mr.  Toms  clapped  his  hands  with  so  sudden  a  noise  that  Maggie 
jumped. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said.  "  That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  people 
talk.  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,  and  we'll  judge  for  ourselves." 
His  voice  was  very  soft  and  pleasant.  The  only  thing  at  all 
strange  about  him  was  his  smile,  that  came  and  went  like  the 


344  THE  CAPTIVES 

ripple  of  firelight  on  the  wall.  "  You'd  like  to  knovr  all  about  us, 
wouldn't  you  ?  Well,  until  ten  years  ago  I  was  selling  corn  in  the 
City.  Such  a  waste  of  time!  But  I  took  it  very  seriously  then 
and  worked,  worked,  worked.  I  worked  too  hard,  you  know,  much 
too  hard,  and  then  I  was  ill — ill  for  a  long  time.  When  I  was 
better  corn  didn't  seem  to  be  of  any  importance,  and  people 
thought  that  very  odd  of  me.  I  was  confused  sometimes  and  called 
people  by  their  wrong  names,  and  sometimes  I  said  what  was  in 
my  head  instead  of  saying  what  was  in  my  stomach.  Every  one 
thought  it  very  odd,  and  if  my  dear  sister  hadn't  come  to  the 
rescue  they  would  have  locked  me  up — they  would  indeed ! 

"  Shut  me  up  and  never  let  me  walk  about — all  because  I  didn't 
care  for  corn  any  more." 

He  laughed  his  little  chuckling  laugh.  "  But  we  beat  them, 
didn't  we,  Dorothy?  Yes,  we  did — and  here  we  are  I  Now,  you 
tell  us  your  history." 

Miss  Toms  had  been  watching  Maggie's  face  intently  while  her 
brother  spoke,  and  the  clear  steady  candour  of  Maggie's  eyes  and 
her  calm  acceptance  of  all  that  the  little  man  said  must  have  been 
reassuring. 

"  Now,  Jim,"  she  said,  "  don't  bother  Mrs.  Trenchard.  You 
can't  expect  her  to  tell  us  her  history  when  she's  calling  for  the 
first  time." 

"  Why  not  expect  me  to  ? "  said  Maggie.  "  I've  got  no  history. 
I  lived  in  Glebeshire  most  of  my  life  with  my  father,  who  was  a 
clergyman.  Then  he  died  and  I  lived  with  two  aunts  in  London. 
Then  I  met  Paul  and  he  married  me,  and  here  I  am ! " 

"  That's  not  history,"  said  Mr.  Toms  a  little  impatiently.  "  How- 
ever, I  won't  bother  you  now.  You're  only  a  child,  I  see.  And  I'm 
very  glad  to  see  it.    I  don't  like  grown  up  people." 

"  How  do  you  like  Skeaton  ? "  asked  Miss  Toms,  speaking  more 
graciously  than  she  had  done. 

"  Oh  I  shall  like  it,  I  expect,"  said  Maggie.  "  At  least  I  shall 
like  the  people.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  like  the  place — the 
sand  blows  about,  and  I  don't  like  the  woods." 

"  Yes,  they're  greasy,  aren't  they  ? "  said  Mr.  Toms,  "  and  full 
of  little  flies.    And  the  trees  are  dark  and  never  cool " 

They  talked  a  little  while  longer,  and  then  Maggie  got  up  to  say 
good-bye.  When  she  took  Mr.  Toms's  hand  and  felt  his  warm 
confident  pressure,  and  saw  his  large  trusting  eyes  looking  into 
hers,  she  felt  a  warmth  of  friendliness,  also  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  known  him  all  her  life. 

Miss  Toms  came  with  her  to  the  door.    They  looked  out  into  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR         345 

dark.  The  sea  rustled  close  at  hand,  far  on  the  horizon  a  red  light 
was  burning  as  though  it  were  a  great  fire.  They  could  hear  the 
wave  break  on  the  beach  and  sigh  in  the  darkness  as  it  with- 
drew. 

"I  shall  come  again,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,"  said  Miss  Toms.  "  We  shall  quite 
understand  if  you  don't  come,  and  we  shan't  think  the  worse  of 
you.  Public  opinion  here  is  very  strong.  They  don't  want  to  be 
unkind  to  Jim,  but  they  think  he  ought  to  be  shut  up.  .  .  . 
Shut  up ! "  Maggie  could  feel  that  she  was  quivering.  "  Shut 
up!" 

Maggie  tossed  her  head. 

"  Anyway,  they  haven't  shut  me  up  yet,"  she  said. 

"  Well — good-night,"  said  Miss  Toms,  after  a  little  pause  in 
which  she  appeared  to  be  struggling  to  say  more. 

She  told  Grace  and  Paul  at  supper  that  night  that  she  had  been 
to  see  the  Toms.  She  saw  Grace  struggling  not  to  show  her  dis- 
approval and  thought  it  was  nice  of  her. 

"  Do  you  really  think ? "  said  Grace.     "  Oh,  perhaps,  after 

all " 

"  Paul,"  said  Maggie,  "  do  you  not  want  me  to  sea  the  Toms  ? " 

Paul  was  distressed. 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.  .  .  .  Miss  Toms  is  a  very  nice  woman. 
Only " 

"  You  think  it's  not  natural  of  me  to  take  an  interest  in  some 
one  who's  a  little  off  his  head  like  Mr.  Toms." 

"Well,  dear,  perhaps  there  is  something " 

Maggie  laughed.  "I'm  a  little  off  my  head  too.  Oh!  you 
needn't  look  so  shocked,  Grace.  You  know  you  think  it,  and  every 
one  else  here  thinks  it  too.  Now,  Grace,  confess.  You're  begin- 
ning to  be  horrified  that  Paul  married  me." 

"  Please,  Maggie "  said  Paul,  who  hated  scenes.    Grace  was 

always  flushed  by  a  direct  attack.  Her  eyes  gazed  in  despair  about 
her  while  she  plunged  about  in  her  mind. 

"  Maggie,  you  mustn't  say  such  things — no,  you  mustn't.  Of 
course  it's  true  that  you've  got  more  to  learn  than  I  thought. 
You  are  careless,  dear,  aren't  you  ?  You  remember  yesterday  that 
you  promised  to  look  in  at  Pettits  and  get  a  reel  of  cotton,  and 
then  of  course  Mr.  Toms  is  a  good  little  man — every  one  says  so 
— but  at  the  same  time  he's  queer,  you  must  admit  that,  Maggie; 
indeed  it  wasn't  really  very  long  ago  that  he  asked  Mrs.  Maxse 
in  the  High  Street  to  take  all  her  clothes  off  so  that  he  could  see 
what  she  was  really  made  of.     Now,  that  isn't  nice,  Maggie,  it's 


346  THE  CAPTIVES 

odd — you  can't  deny  it.  And  if  you'd  only  told  me  that  you  hadn't 
been  to  Pettits  I  could  have  gone  later  myself." 

tt  If  it  isn't  one  thing,"  said  Maggie,  "  it's  another.  I  may  be 
a  child  and  careless,  and  not  be  educated,  and  have  strange  ideas, 
but  if  you  thought,  Grace,  that  it  was  going  to  be  just  the  same 
after  Paul  was  married  as  before  you  were  mistaken.  Three's  a 
difficult  number  to  manage,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  if  you  mean,"  said  Grace,  crimsoning,  "  that  I'm  better 
away,  that  I  should  live  somewhere  else,  please  say  so  openly.  I 
hate  this  hinting.    What  I  mean  to  say  is  I  can  leave  to-morrow." 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  said  Paul  hurriedly,  "  whoever  thought  such 
a  thing  ?  We  couldn't  get  on  without  you.  All  that  Maggie  meant 
was  that  it  takes  time  to  settle  down.    So  it  does." 

"  That  isn't  all  I  meant,"  said  Maggie  slowly.  "  I  meant  that 
I'm  not  just  a  child  as  you  both  think.  I've  got  a  life  of  my  own 
and  ideas  of  my  own.  I'll  give  way  to  you  both  in  lots  of  things 
so  long  as  it  makes  you  happy,  but  you're  not — you're  not  going  to 
shut  me  up  as  you'd  like  to  do  to  Mr.  Toms." 

Perhaps  both  Grace  and  Paul  had  a  sharp  troubling  impression 
of  having  caught  some  strange  creature  against  their  will.  Maggie 
had  risen  from  the  table  and  stood  for  the  moment  by  the  door 
facing  them,  her  short  hair,  standing  thick  about  her  head,  con- 
trasting with  her  thick  white  neck,  her  body  balanced  clumsily  but 
with  great  strength,  like  that  of  a  boy  who  has  not  yet  grown  to 
his  full  maturity.  She  tossed  her  head  back  in  a  way  that  she 
had  and  was  gone. 

The  Caroline  affair  was  of  another  sort.  Some  days  after 
Christmas,  Maggie  went  to  have  tea  with  Caroline.  She  did  not 
enjoy  it  at  all.  She  felt  at  once  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  the  house.  It  was  full  of  paintings  in  big  gold  frames,  look- 
ing-glasses, and  marble  statues,  and  there  was  a  large  garden  that 
had  an  artificial  look  of  having  been  painted  by  some  clever  artist 
in  the  course  of  a  night.  Maggie  did  not  pay  a  long  visit.  There 
were  a  number  of  men  present;  there  was  also  a  gramophone,  and 
after  tea  they  turned  up  the  carpet  in  the  dining-room  and  danced. 

Caroline,  in  spite  of  her  noise  and  laughter,  did  not  seem  to 
Maggie  to  be  happy.  She  introduced  her  for  a  moment  to  the 
master  of  the  house,  a  stout  red-faced  man  who  looked  as  though 
he  had  lost  something  very  precious,  but  was  too  sleepy  to  search 
for  it.  He  called  Caroline  "  Sweet,"  and  she  treated  him  with 
patronage  and  contempt.  Maggie  came  away  distressed,  and  she 
was  not  surprised  to  hear,  a  day  or  two  later,  from  Grace  that 
Mrs.  Purdie  was  "  fast "  and  had  been  rude  to  Mrs.  Constantine. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        347 

One  day  early  in  the  spring  Grace  announced  that  Maggie  ought 
not  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Purdie  any  more.  "  There  are  all  sorts  of 
stories."  said  Grace.  "People  say — Oh,  well,  never  mind.  They 
have  dancing  on  Sunday." 

"  But  she's  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You  have  others  to  think  of  beside  yourself,  Maggie,"  said 
Grace.    "  And  there  is  the  Church." 

"  She's  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  repeated  Maggie,  her  mouth  set 
obstinately. 

"  I  will  ask  Paul  what  he  thinks,"  said  Grace. 

"  Please,"  said  Maggie,  her  colour  rising  into  her  cheeks,  "  don't 
interfere  between  Paul  and  me.    I'll  speak  to  him  myself." 

She  did.  Paul  maintained  the  attitude  of  indifference  that  he 
had  adopted  during  the  last  six  months. 

"  But  would  you  rather  I  didn't  go  ? "  asked  Maggie,  aggravated. 

"  You  must  use  your  judgment,"  said  Paul. 

"But  don't  you  see  that  I  can't  leave  a  friend  just  because  people 
are  saying  nasty  things." 

"  There's  your  position  in  the  parish,"  said  Paul. 

"Oh,  Paul!"  Maggie  cried.  "Don't  be  so  aggravating!  Just 
say  what  you  really  think." 

*  I'm  sorry  I'm  aggravating,"  said  Paul  patiently. 

It  was  this  conversation  that  determined  Maggie.  She  had  been 
coming,  through  all  the  winter  months,  to  a  resolution.  She  must 
be  alone  with  Paul,  she  must  have  things  out  with  him.  As  the 
months  had  gone  they  had  been  slipping  further  and  further  apart. 
It  had  been  Paul  who  had  gradually  withdrawn  into  himself.  He 
had  been  kind  and  thoughtful,  but  reserved,  shy,  embarrassed.  She 
understood  his  trouble,  but  at  her  first  attempt  to  force  him  to 
speak  he  escaped  and  placed  Grace  between  them.  Well,  this 
summer  should  see  the  end  of  that.  They  must  know  where  they 
stood,  and  for  that  they  must  be  alone.  .    .    . 

One  day,  early  in  June,  Paul  announced  that  he  thought  of 
exchanging  duties,  for  the  month  of  August,  with  a  Wiltshire 
clergyman.  This  was  Maggie's  opportunity.  Finding  him  alone  in 
his  study,  she  attacked. 

"  Paul,  did  you  mean  Grace  to  come  with  us  to  Little  Harben 
in  August?" 

"  Of  course,  dear.    She  has  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"  Well,  she  mustn't  come.  I've  given  way  about  everything  since 
we  were  married.  I'm  not  going  to  give  way  about  this.  That 
month  we  are  to  be  alone." 

"  Alone !  "  said  Paul.    "  But  we're  always  alone." 


348  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  We're  never  alone,"  said  Maggie,  standing  with  her  legs  apart 
and  her  hands  behind  her  back.  "  I  don't  mean  to  complain  about 
Grace.  She's  been  very  good  to  me,  I  know,  and  I've  got  much 
to  be  grateful  for.  All  the  same  she's  not  coming  to  Little  Harben. 
She's  got  you  all  the  rest  of  the  year.  She  can  give  you  up  for 
a  month.'* 

"  But  Maggie "  said  Paul. 

"  No,  I'm  quite  determined  about  this.  I  may  be  a  child  and  a 
fool,  but  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about  this  time.  You're  not 
happy.  You  never  talk  to  me  as  you  used  to.  There  are  many 
things  we  ought  to  have  out,  but  Grace  is  always  there  in  the 
daytime  and  at  night  you're  too  tired.  If  we  go  on  like  this 
we'll  be  strangers  in  another  six  months." 

He  turned  round  to  stare  at  her,  and  she  saw  in  his  eyes  an  odd 
excited  light. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  If  we  go  alone  to  Little 
Harben  does  it  mean  that  you  think — you  can  begin  to  love  me  ?  " 
She  turned  her  eyes  away.  "  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  about 
myself,  I  only  know  that  I  want  us  to  be  happy  and  I  want  us  to 
be  close  together — as  we  were  before  we  were  married.  It's  all 
gone  wrong  somehow;  I'm  sure  it's  my  fault.  It  was  just  the 
same  with  my  father  and  my  aunts.  I  couldn't  say  the  things  to 
them  I  wanted  to,  the  things  I  really  felt,  and  so  I  lost  them.  I'm 
going  to  lose  you  in  the  same  way  if  I'm  not  careful." 

He  still  looked  at  her  strangely.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  he  turned 
back  to  his  desk. 
"  I'll  speak  to  Grace,"  he  said.  That  night  the  storm  broke. 
During  supper  Grace  was  very  quiet.  Maggie,  watching  her, 
knew  that  Paul  had  spoken  to  her.  Afterwards  in  the  study  the 
atmosphere  was  electric.  Grace  read  The  Church  Times,  Paul 
the  Standard,  Maggie  Longfellow's  Golden  Legend,  which  she 
thought  foolish. 

Grace  looked  up.  "  So  I  understand,  Maggie,  that  you  don't 
want  me  to  come  with  you  and  Paul  this  summer  ? " 

Maggie,  her  heart,  in  spite  of  herself,  thumping  in  her  breast, 
faced  a  Grace  transfigured  by  emotion.  That  countenance,  heav- 
ily, flabbily  good-natured,  the  eyes  if  stupid,  also  kind,  was  now 
marked  and  riven  with  a  flaming  anger. 

But  Maggie  was  no  coward.  With  her  old  gesture  of  self-com- 
mand she  stilled  her  heart.  "  I'm  very  sorry,  Grace,"  she  said. 
u  But  it's  only  for  a  month.    I  want  to  be  alone  with  Paul." 

Grace,  her  hands  fumbling  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  though 
she  were  blind,  rose. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAS         349 

"You've  hated  my  being  here,  Maggie  ...  all  this  time  I've 
seen  it.  You've  hated  me.  You  don't  know  that  you  owe  every- 
thing to  me,  that  you  couldn't  have  managed  the  house,  the  shops, 
the  servants — nothing,  nothing.  This  last  year  I've  worked  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  for  you  and  Paul.  What  do  you  think  I  get 
out  of  it?  Nothing.  It's  because  I  love  Paul  .  .  .  because  I 
love  Paul.  But  you've  hated  my  doing  things  better  than  you, 
you've  wanted  me  to  fail,  you've  been  jealous,  that's  what  you've 
been.  Very  well,  then,  I'll  go.  You've  made  that  plain  enough 
at  any  rate.  I'll  leave  to-morrow.  I  won't  wait  another  hour. 
And  I'll  never  forgive  you  for  this — never.  You've  taken  Paul 
away  from  me  ...  all  I've  ever  had.  I'll  never  forgive  you — 
never,  never,  never." 

"  Grace,  Grace,"  cried  Paul. 

But  she  rushed  from  the  room. 

Maggie  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Why,  Paul,"  she  said,  "  you're  frightened.  Grace  doesn't 
mean  it.  She  won't  go  to-morrow — or  ever.  There's  nothing  to 
be  frightened  of." 

His  red  cheeks  were  pale.    His  hands  trembled. 

"  I  do  so  hate  quarrels,"  he  said. 

Maggie  went  up  to  him  and  rather  timidly  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"  We'll  have  a  lovely  time  at  Harben,"  she  said.  u  Ob,  I  do 
want  you  to  be  happy,  Paul." 


CHAPTEK  VI 

the  battle  of  skeaton 

Second  Year 

STRANGELY  enough  Maggie  felt  happier  after  this  disturb- 
ance. Grace,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  was  an  interesting 
confusion  of  silent  and  offended  dignity  and  sudden  capitulations 
because  she  had  some  news  of  fussing  interest  that  she  must  im- 
part. Nevertheless  she  was  deeply  hurt.  She  was  as  tenacious  of 
her  grievances  as  a  limpet  is  of  its  rock,  and  she  had  never  been 
so  severely  wounded  before.  Maggie,  on  her  side,  liked  Grace 
better  after  the  quarrel.  She  had  never  really  disliked  her,  she 
had  only  been  irritated  by  her. 

She  thought  it  very  natural  of  her  to  be  angry  and  jealous  about 
Paul.  She  was  determined  that  this  month  at  Little  Harben 
should  put  everything  right.  Looking  back  over  these  past  years 
she  blamed  herself  severely.  She  had  been  proud,  self-centred,  un- 
feeling. She  remembered  that  day  so  long  ago  at  St.  Dreot's  when 
Aunt  Anne  had  appealed  for  her  affection  and  she  had  made  no 
reply.  There  had  been  many  days,  too,  in  London  when  she  had 
been  rebellious  and  hard.  She  thought  of  that  night  when  Aunt 
Anne  had  suffered  so  terribly  and  she  had  wanted  only  her  own 
escape.  Yes — hard  and  unselfish  that  was  what  she  had  been,  and 
she  had  been  punished  by  losing  Martin. 

Already  here,  just  as  before  in  London,  she  was  complaining  and 
angry,  and  unsympathetic.  She  did  care  for  Paul — she  could 
even  love  Grace  if  she  would  let  her.  She  would  make  every- 
thing right  this  summer  and  try  and  be  a  better,  kinder 
woman. 

Then,  one  morning,  she  found  a  letter  on  the  breakfast  table. 
She  did  not  recognise  the  handwriting;  when  she  opened  it  and 
saw  the  signature  at  the  end  for  a  moment  she  also  did  not  recog- 
nise that.  "  William  Magnus."  .  .  .  Then — why,  of  course !  Mr. 
Magnus !  She  saw  him  standing  looking  down  at  her  with  his  mild 
eyes,  staring  through  his  large  spectacles. 

Her  heart  beat  furiously.  She  waited  until  breakfast  was  over, 
then  she  took  it  up  to  her  bedroom. 

The  letter  was  as  follows : 

350 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      351 

Dear  Miss  Maggie, 

I  know  you  are  not  "Miss  Maggie"  now,  but  that  is  the  only 
way  that  I  can  think  of  you.  I  expect  that  you  have  quite  for- 
gotten me,  and  perhaps  you  don't  want  to  hear  from  me,  but  I 
must  not  lose  sight  of  you  altogether.  I  haven't  so  many  friends 
that  I  can  lose  one  without  a  word.  I  don't  know  quite  what  to 
begin  by  telling  you.  I  ought  to  ask  you  questions  about  yourself. 
I  suppose,  but  I  know  that  your  aunts  hear  from  you  from  time  to 
time  and  they  give  me  news  from  your  letters.  I  hear  that  you  are 
happily  married  and  are  quite  settled  down  to  your  new  life.  I'm 
very  glad  to  hear  that,  although  it  isn't  quite  the  life  that  I  would 
have  prophesied  for  you.  Do  you  like  Skeaton?  I've  never  cared 
much  for  seaside  resorts  myself,  but  then  I'm  a  queer  cranky  old 
man,  and  I  deserve  all  I  get.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  something 
cheerful  about  all  your  friends  here,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  Your 
aunt  is  so  brave  and  plucky  that  probably  she  said  nothing  to  you 
in  her  last  letter  about  how  ill  she  has  been,  but  she's  just  had  a 
very  bad  bout,  and  at  one  time  we  were  afraid  that  we  were  going 
to  lose  her.  You  can  imagine  how  anxious  we  all  were.  But  she 
is  better  again  now,  although  very  much  shattered.  The  Chapel  is 
closed.  There's  a  piece  of  news  for  you !  It  never  recovered  from 
poor  Warlock's  death;  he  was  the  spirit  that  gave  it  life,  and 
although  he  may  have  had  his  dreams  and  imaginations  that 
deceived  him,  there  was  some  life  in  that  building  that  I  have 
never  found  anywhere  else  and  shall  never  find  again.  You  re- 
member that  Amy  Warlock  married  that  scamp  Thurston.  Well, 
she  has  left  him  and  has  come  back  to  live  with  her  mother.  She 
had  a  rather  bad  experience,  I'm  afraid,  poor  woman,  but  she  says 
nothing  to  any  one  about  it.  She  and  the  old  lady  have  moved 
from  this  part  of  London  and  have  gone  to  live  somewhere  in 
Kensington.  Some  one  saw  Martin  Warlock  in  Paris  the  other  day. 
I  hear  that  he  has  been  very  seriously  ill  and  is  greatly  changed, 
looking  years  older.  I  can  say,  now  that  you  are  happily  married, 
that  I  am  greatly  relieved  that  you  were  not  engaged  to  him.  You 
won't  think  this  presumptuous  of  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  will  you  ?  I  am  sure  he  had  many  good  things  in  him,  but 
he  was  very  weak  and  not  fitted  to  look  after  you.  But  he  had  a 
good  heart,  I'm  sure,  and  his  father's  death  was  a  great  shock  to 
him.  Thurston,  I  hear,  is  having  revival  meetings  up  and  down 
the  country.  Miss  Avies,  I  believe,  is  with  him.  You  remember 
Miss  Pyncheon?  She  and  many  other  regular  attendants  at  the 
Chapel  have  left  this  neighbourhood.  The  Chapel  is  to  be  a 
cinematograph  theatre,  I  believe.     There!     I  have  given  you  all 


352  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  gossip.  I  have  not  said  more  about  your  aunts  because  I  want 
you  to  come  up  one  day  to  London,  when  you  have  time,  and  see 
them.  You  will  do  that,  won't  you  ?  I  expect  you  are  very  busy — 
I  hope  you  are.  I  would  like  to  have  a  line  from  you,  but  please 
don't  bother  if  you  have  too  much  to  do. 

Always  your  friend, 

William  Magnus. 

When  Maggie  saw  Martin's  name  the  other  writing  on  the  page 
transformed  itself  suddenly  into  a  strange  pattern  of  webs  and 
squares.  Nevertheless  she  pursued  her  way  through  this,  but 
without  her  own  agency,  as  though  some  outside  person  were  read- 
ing to  her  and  she  was  not  listening. 

She  repeated  the  last  words  "Always  your  friend,  William 
Magnus"  aloud  solemnly  twice.  Her  thoughts  ran  in  leaps  and 
runs,  hurdle-race-wise  across  the  flat  level  of  her  brain.  Martin. 
Old.  111.  Paris.  Those  walls  out  there  and  the  road — man  with 
a  spade — little  boy  walking  with  him — chattering — it's  going  to 
be  hot.  The  light  across  the  lawn  is  almost  blue  and  the  beds  are 
dry.  His  room.  The  looking-glass.  Always  tilts  back  when  one 
tries  to  see  one's  hair.  Meant  to  speak  about  it.  Martin.  HI. 
Paris.  Paris.  Trains.  Boats.  How  quickly  could  one  be  there? 
No  time  at  all.  Paris.  Never  been  to  Paris.  Perhaps  he  isn't 
there  now.   .    .    . 

At  that  definite  picture  she  controlled  her  mind  again.  She 
pulled  it  up  as  a  driver  drags  back  a  restive  horse.  Her  first  real 
thought  was :  "  How  hard  that  this  letter  should  have  come  now 
when  I  was  just  going  to  put  everything  right  with  Paul."  Her 
next :  "  Poor  Paul !  But  I  don't  care  for  him  a  bit.  ...  I  don't 
care  for  any  one  but  Martin.  I  never  did."  Her  next :  "  Why  did 
I  ever  think  I  did  ?  "    And  her  next :  "  Why  did  I  ever  do  this  ? " 

She  knew  with  a  strange  calm  certainty  that  from  this  moment 
she  would  never  be  rid  of  Martin's  presence  again.  She  had 
maintained  for  more  than  a  year  a  wonderful  make-believe  of  in- 
difference. She  had  fancied  that  by  pushing  furiously  with  both 
hands  one  could  drive  things  into  the  past.  But  Fate  was  cleverer 
than  that.  What  he  wanted  to  keep  he  kept  for  you — the  weaving 
of  the  pattern  in  the  carpet  might  be  your  handiwork,  but  the  final 
design  was  settled  before  ever  the  carpet  was  begun.  Not  that  any 
of  these  fine  thoughts  ever  entered  Maggie's  head.  All  that  she 
thought  was  "  I  love  Martin.  I  want  to  go  to  him.  He's  ill.  I've 
got  to  do  my  duty  about  Paul."  She  settled  upon  that  last  point. 
She  bound  her  mind  around  it,  fast  and  secure  like  thick  cord. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      353 

She  put  Mr.  Magnus'  letter  away  in  the  shell-covered  box,  the 
wedding-present  from  the  aunts;  in  this  box  were  the  programme 
of  the  play  that  she  had  been  to  with  Martin,  the  ring  with  the 
three  pearls,  Martin's  few  letters,  and  some  petals  of  the  chrysan- 
themum, dry  and  faded,  that  she  had  worn  on  the  great  day  of 
the  matinee.  Something  had  warned  her  that  it  was  foolish  to 
keep  Martin's  letters,  but  why  should  she  not?  She  had  never 
hidden  her  love  for  Martin.  Then,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  close  beside  the  large  double-bed,  with  a  football-group  and 
"  The  Crucifixion  "  staring  down  upon  her,  she  had  her  worst  hour. 
Nothing  in  all  life  could  have  moved  her  as  did  that  picture  of 
Martin's  loneliness  and  sickness.  Wave  after  wave  of  persuasion 
swept  over  her :  "  Go !  Go  now !  Take  the  train  to  Paris.  You 
can  find  out  from  Mr.  Magnus  where  he  was  living.  He  is  sick. 
He  needs  you.  You  swore  to  him  that  you  would  never  desert  him, 
and  you  have  deserted  him.  They  don't  want  you  here.  Grace 
hates  you,  and  Paul  is  too  lazy  to  care ! " 

At  the  thought  of  Paul  resolution  came  to  her.  She  looked  up 
at  the  rather  fat,  amiable  youth  with  the  stout  legs  and  the  bare 
knees  in  the  football  photograph,  and  prayed  to  it:  "Paul,  I'm 
very  lonely  and  tempted.  Care  for  me  even  though  I  can't  love 
you  as  you  want.  Don't  give  me  up  because  I  can't  let  you  have 
what  some  one  else  has  got.    Let's  be  happy,  Paul — please." 

She  was  shivering.  She  looked  back  with  a  terrified,  reluctant 
glance  to  the  drawer  where  Mr.  Magnus'  letter  was,  then  she 
went  downstairs. 

Soon  after  they  started  for  Little  Harben.  The  last  days  in 
Skeaton  had  scarcely  been  happy  ones.  Grace  had  erected  an 
elaborate  scaffolding  of  offended  dignity  and  bitter  misery.  She 
was  not  bitterly  miserable,  indeed  she  enjoyed  her  game,  but  it 
was  depressing  to  watch  Paul  give  way  to  her.  He  was  determined 
to  leave  her  in  a  happy  mind.  Any  one  could  have  told  him  that 
the  way  to  do  that  was  to  leave  her  alone  altogether.  Instead  he 
petted  her,  persuading  her  to  eat  her  favourite  pudding,  buying  her 
a  new  work-box  that  she  needed,  dismissing  a  boy  from  the  choir 
(the  only  treble  who  was  a  treble)  because  he  was  supposed  to  have 
made  a  long-nose  at  Grace  during  choir-practice. 

He  adopted  also  a  pleading  line  with  her.  u  Now,  Grace  dear, 
don't  you  think  you  could  manage  a  little  bit  more?" 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  go  out  in  all  this  rain,  Grace  dear?  " 
"  Grace,  you  look  tired  to  death.  Shall  I  read  to  you  a  little  ? " 
He  listened  to  her  stories  with  a  new  elaborate  attention.     He 


354  THE  CAPTIVES 

laughed  heartily  at  the  very  faintest  glimmer  of  a  joke.  Through 
it  all  Grace  maintained  an  unreleased  solemnity,  a  mournful 
superiority,  a  grim  forbearance. 

Maggie,  watching,  felt  with  a  sinking  heart  that  she  was  begin- 
ning to  despise  Paul. 

His  very  movement  as  he  hurried  to  place  a  cushion  for  Grace 
sent  a  little  shiver  down  her  back.  "  Oh,  don't  do  it,  Paul !  "  she 
heard  herself  cry  internally,  but  she  could  say  nothing.  She  had 
won  her  victory  about  Harben.  She  could  only  now  be  silent. 
Still,  she  bore  no  grudge  at  all  against  Grace.  She  even  liked 
her. 

Grace  made  many  sinister  allusions  to  her  fancied  departure. 
"  Ah,  in  November.  .  .  .  Oh !  of  course  I  shall  not  be  here  then !  " 
or,  "  That  will  be  in  the  autumn  then,  won't  it  ?  You'd  better  give 
it  to  some  one  who  will  be  here  at  the  time."  With  every  allusion 
she  scored  a  victory.  It  was  evident  that  Paul  was  terrified  by 
the  thought  that  she  should  leave  him.  He  did  not  see  what  he 
would  do  without  her.    His  world  would  tumble  to  pieces. 

"  But  she  hasn't  the  remotest  intention  of  going,"  said  Maggie. 
"  She'll  never  go." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  It  would  be  strange  without  her,  Maggie, 
I  must  confess.  You  see,  all  our  lives  we've  been  together — all  our 
lives." 

Nevertheless  he  felt  perhaps  some  relief,  in  spite  of  himself, 
when  they  were  safely  in  a  train  for  Little  Harben.  It  was  rather 
a  relief,  just  for  a  day  or  two,  not  to  see  Grace's  reproachful  face. 
Yes,  it  was.  He  was  quite  gay,  almost  like  the  boy  he  used  to  be. 
Little  Harben  was  one  of  the  smallest  villages  in  Wiltshire  and 
its  Rectory  one  of  the  most  dilapidated.  The  Rectory  was  sunk 
into  the  very  bottom  of  a  green  well.  Green  hills  rose  on  every 
side  above  it,  green  woods  pressed  in  all  around  it,  a  wild,  deserted 
green  garden  crept  up  to  the  windows  and  clambered  about  the 
old  walls.  There  was  hardly  any  furniture  in  the  house,  and  many 
many  windows  all  without  curtains.  Long  looking-glasses  reflected 
the  green  garden  at  every  possible  angle  so  that  all  the  lights  and 
shadows  in  the  house  were  green.  There  was  a  cat  with  green 
eyes,  and  the  old  servant  was  so  aged  and  infirm  that  she  was, 
spiritually  if  not  physically,  covered  with  green  moss. 

From  their  bedroom  they  could  see  the  long  green  slope  of  the 
hill.  Everywhere  there  was  a  noise  of  birds  nestling  amongst  the 
leaves,  of  invisible  streams  running  through  the  grass,  of  branches 
mysteriously  cracking,  and,  always,  in  the  distance  some  one 
seemed  to  be  chopping  with  an  axe.    If  you  pushed  a  window  open 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAK      355 

multitudes  of  little  insects  fell  in  showers  about  you.  All  the 
roses  were  eaten  with  green  flies. 

"What  a  place!"  said  Maggie;  nevertheless  it  was  rather  agree- 
able after  the  sand  of  Skeaton. 

During  the  first  three  days  they  preserved  their  attitude  of 
friendly  distance.  On  the  fourth  evening  Maggie  desperately 
flung  down  her  challenge.  They  were  sitting,  after  supper,  in  the 
wild  deserted  garden.  It  was  a  wonderful  evening,  faintly  blue  and 
dim  crocus  with  flickering  silver  stars.  The  last  birds  twittered  in 
the  woods;  the  green  arc  of  the  hill  against  the  evening  sky  had  a 
great  majesty  of  repose  and  rest.    "  Now.  Paul !  "  said  Maggie. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ? "  but  he  slowly  changed  colour  and  looked 
away  from  her,  out  into  the  wood. 

"  We've  got  to  face  it  some  time,"  she  said.  "  The  sooner,  then, 
the  better " 

"  Face  what  ? "  he  asked,  dropping  his  voice  as  though  he  were 
afraid  that  some  one  would  overhear. 

"  You  and  me."  Maggie  gathered  her  resources  together.  "  Be- 
fore we  were  married  we  were  great  friends.  You  were  the  greatest 
friend  I  ever  had  except  Uncle  Mathew.  And  now  I  don't  know 
what  we  are." 

"  Whose  fault  is  that  ? "  he  asked  huskily.  "  You  know  what  the 
matter  is.  You  don't  love  me.  You  never  have.  .  .  .  Have 
you  ?  "    He  suddenly  ended,  turning  towards  her. 

She  saw  his  new  eagerness  and  she  was  frightened,  but  she  looked 
at  a  little  bunch  of  stars  that  twinkled  at  her  above  the  dark  elms 
and  took  courage. 

"  I'm  very  bad  at  explaining  my  feelings,"  she  said.  "  And 
you're  not  very  good  either,  Paul.  I  know  I  am  very  fond  of  you. 
and  I  feel  as  though  it  ought  to  be  so  simple  if  I  were  wiser  or 
kinder.  I've  been  thinking  for  weeks  about  this,  and  I  want  to  say 
that  I'm  ready  to  do  anything  that  will  make  you  happy." 

"You'll  love  me?"  he  asked. 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  and  I  always  will  be." 

"  No,  but  love." 

"A  word  like  that  isn't  important.    Affection " 

"  No.    It's  love  I  want." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  pressing  her  hands  together,  staring 
into  the  wood  that  was  sinking  into  avenues  of  dark.  She  couldn't 
answer  him.  He  came  over  to  her.  He  knelt  on  the  dry  grass, 
took  her  head  between  his  hands,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again 
and  again. 

She  heard  him  murmur :  "  Maggie  .    .    .  Maggie  .    .   .  Maggie. 


356  THE  CAPTIVES 

You  must  love  me.  You  must.  I've  waited  so  long.  I  didn't 
know  what  love  was.  God  in  His  Mercy  forgive  me  for  the 
thoughts  I've  had  this  year.  You've  tormented  me.  Tantalised 
me.  You're  a  witch.  A  witch.  You're  so  strange,  so  odd,  so 
unlike  any  one.  You've  enchanted  me.  Love  me.  Maggie.  .  .  . 
Love  me.  .   .   .  Love  me." 

She  caught  his  words  all  broken  and  scattered.  She  felt  his 
heart  beating  against  her  body,  and  his  hands  were  hot  to  the 
touch  of  her  cold  cheek.  She  felt  that  he  was  desperate  and 
ashamed  and  pitiful.  She  felt,  above  all  else,  that  she  must 
respond — and  she  could  not.  She  strove  to  give  him  what  he 
needed.  She  caught  his  hands,  and  then,  because  she  knew  that 
she  was  acting  falsely  and  the  whole  of  her  nature  was  in  rebellion, 
she  drew  back.    He  felt  her  withdraw.    His  hands  dropped. 

She  burst  into  tears,  suddenly  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  as 
she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 

"  Oh,  Paul,"  she  wept.  "  I'm  so  sorry.  I'm  se  sorry.  I'm 
wicked.    I  can't " 

He  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  looking  towards  the 
night  sky  that  flashed  now  with  stars. 

She  controlled  herself,  feeling  desperately  that  their  whole  future 
together  hung  on  the  approaching  minutes.  She  went  up  to  him. 
standing  at  first  timidly  behind  him,  then  putting  her  hand  through 
his  arm. 

"  Paul.  It  isn't  so  hopeless.  If  I  can't  give  you  that  I  can 
give  you  everything  else.  I  told  you  from  the  first  that  I  couldn't 
help  loving  Martin.  All  that  kind  of  love  I  gave  to  him,  but  we 
can  be  friends.  I  want  a  friend  so  badly.  If  we're  both  lonely 
we  can  come  together  closer  and  closer,  and  perhaps,  later  on " 

But  she  could  not  go  on.  She  knew  that  she  would  never  forget 
Martin,  that  she  would  never  love  Paul.  These  two  things  were  so 
clear  to  her  that  she  could  not  pretend.  As  the  darkness  gathered 
the  wood  into  its  arms  and  the  last  twitter  of  the  birds  sank  into 
silence,  she  felt  that  she  too  was  being  caught  into  some  silent 
blackness.  The  sky  was  pale  green,  the  stars  so  bright  that  the 
rest  of  the  world  seemed  to  lie  in  dim  shadow.  She  could  scarcely 
see  Paul  now;  when  he  spoke  his  voice  came,  disembodied,  out  of 
the  dusk. 

"You'll  never  forget  him,  then?"  at  last  he  asked. 

"No." 

"  You're  strange.  You  don't  belong  to  us.  I  should  have  seen 
that  at  the  beginning.  I  knew  nothing  about  women  and  thought 
that  all  that  I  wanted — oh  God,  why  should  I  be  so  tempted  ?    I've 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR   357 

been  a  good  man.  ..."  Then  he  came  close  to  her  and  put  his 
band  on  her  shoulder  and  even  drew  her  to  him.  "I  won't  bother 
you  any  more,  Maggie.  I'll  conquer  this.  We'll  be  friends  as  you 
want.    It  isn't  fair  to  you " 

She  felt  the  control  that  he  was  keeping  on  himself  and  she 
admired  him.  Nevertheless  she  knew,  young  though  she  was,  that 
if  she  let  him  go  now  she  was  losing  him  for  ever.  The  strangest 
pang  of  loneliness  and  isolation  seized  her.  If  Paul  left  her  and 
Martin  wasn't  there,  she  was  lonely  indeed.  She  saw  quite  clearly 
how  his  laziness  would  come  to  his  aid.  He  would  Bummon  first 
his  virtue  and  his  religion,  and  twenty  years  of  abstinence  would 
soon  reassert  their  sway;  then  he  would  slip  back  into  the  old,  lazy, 
self-complacent  being  that  he  had  been  before.  Staring  into  the 
dark  wood  she  saw  it  all.  She  could  completely  capture  him  by 
responding  to  his  passion.  Without  that  she  wa3  too  queer,  too 
untidy,  too  undisciplined,  to  hold  him  at  all.  But  she  could  not 
lie,  she  could  not  pretend. 

She  kissed  him. 

"  Paul,  let's  be  friends,  then.  Splendid  friends.  Oh !  we  will 
be  happy ! " 

But  as  he  kissed  her  she  knew  that  she  had  lost  him. 

Paul  was  very  kind  to  her  during  their  stay  at  Little  Harben, 
but  they  recovered  none  of  that  old  friendship  that  had  been 
theirs  before  they  married.  Too  many  things  were  now  between 
them.  By  the  end  of  that  month  Maggie  longed  to  return  to 
Skeaton.  It  was  not  only  that  she  felt  crushed  and  choked  by  the 
strangling  green  that  hemmed  in  the  old  house — the  weeds  and 
the  trees  and  the  plants  seemed  to  draw  in  the  night  closer  and 
closer  about  the  windows  and  doors — but  also  solitude  with  Paul 
was  revealing  to  her,  in  a  ruthless,  cruel  manner,  his  weaknesses. 
They  were  none  of  them,  perhaps,  very  terrible,  but  she  did  not 
wish  to  see  them.  She  would  like  to  shut  her  eyes  to  them  all. 
If  she  lost  that  friendly  kindness  that  she  felt  for  him  then  indeed 
she  had  lost  everything.  She  felt  as  though  he  were  wilfully  try- 
ing to  tug  it  away  from  her. 

Why  was  it  that  she  had  never  shrunk  from  the  faults  of  Martin 
and  Uncle  Mathew — faults  so  plain  and  obvious — and  now  shrunk 
from  Paul's?  Paul's  were  such  little  ones — a  desire  for  praise 
and  appreciation,  a  readiness  to  be  cheated  into  believing  that  all 
was  well  when  he  knew  that  things  were  very  wrong,  an  eagerness 
to  be  liked  even  by  quite  worthless  people,  sloth  and  laziness,  living 
lies  that  were  of  no  importance  save  as  sign-posts  to  the  cowardice 
of  his  soul.    Yes,  cowardice!    That  was  the  worst  of  all.    Was  it 


358  THE  CAPTIVES 

his  religion  that  had  made  him  cowardly?  Why  was  Maggie  so 
terribly  certain  that  if  the  necessity  for  physical  defence  of  her 
or  some  helpless  creature  arose  Paul  would  evade  it  and  talk  about 
"  turning  the  other  cheek  "  ?  He  was  so  large  a  man  and  so  soft 
— a  terrific  egoist  finally,  in  the  centre  of  his  soul,  an  egoist  barri- 
caded by  superstitions  and  fears  and  lies,  but  not  a  ruthless  egoist, 
because  that  demanded  energy. 

And  yet,  with  all  this,  he  had  so  many  good  points.  He  was  a 
child,  a  baby,  like  so  many  clergymen.  Even  her  father  could 
have  been  defended  by  that  plea.  .    .    . 

He  was  not  radically  bad,  he  was  radically  good,  but  he  had 
never  known  discipline  or  real  sorrow  or  hardship.  Wrapped  in 
cotton  wool  all  his  life,  spoilt,  indulged,  treated  by  the  world  as 
men  treat  women.  His  effeminacy  was  the  result  of  his  training 
because  he  had  always  been  sheltered.  Now  his  contact  with 
Maggie  was  presenting  him  for  the  first  time  with  Reality.  Would 
he  face  and  grapple  with  it,  or  would  he  slip  away,  evade  it,  and 
creep  back  into  his  padded  castle? 

The  return  to  Skeaton  and  the  winter  that  followed  it  did  not 
answer  that  question.  Maggie,  Grace,  and  Paul  were  figures, 
guarded  and  defended,  outwardly  friendly.  Grace  behaved  during 
those  months  very  well,  but  Maggie  knew  that  this  was  a  fresh 
sign  of  hostility.  The  "  Chut-Chut,"  "My  dear  child,"  and  the 
rest  that  had  been  so  irritating  had  been  after  all  signs  of  intimacy. 
They  were  now  withdrawn.  Maggie  made  herself  during  that 
winter  and  the  spring  that  followed  as  busy  as  possible.  She 
ruthlessly  forbade  all  thoughts  of  Martin,  of  the  aunts,  of  London ; 
she  scarcely  saw  Caroline,  and  the  church  was  her  fortress.  She 
seemed  to  be  flung  from  service  to  service,  to  be  singing  in  the 
choir  (she  had  no  voice),  asking  children  their  catechism,  listening 
to  Paul's  high,  rather  strained,  voice  reading  the  lessons,  talking 
politely  to  Mrs.  Maxse  or  one  of  the  numerous  girls,  knitting  and 
sewing  (always  so  badly),  and  above  all  struggling  to  remember 
the  things  that  she  was  for  ever  forgetting.  Throughout  this 
period  she  was  pervaded  by  the  damp,  oily  smell  of  the  heated 
church,  always  too  hot,  always  too  close,  always  too  breathless. 

She  had  many  headaches ;  she  liked  them  because  they  held  back 
her  temptation  to  think  of  forbidden  things. 

Gradually,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  the  impression  gained 
ground  that  she  was  "queer."  She  had  not  been  to  the  Toms' 
often,  but  she  was  spoken  of  as  their  friend.  She  had  seen  Caro- 
line, who  was  now  considered  by  the  church  a  most  scandalous 
figure,  scarcely  at  all,   but  it  was  known  that  she  was  an  old 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR   359 

friend.  Above  all,  it  was  understood  that  the  rector  and  his  wife 
were  not  happy. 

"  Oh,  she's  odd — looks  more  like  a  boy  than  a  woman.  She  never 
says  anything,  seems  to  have  no  ideas.  I  don't  believe  she's 
religious  really  either." 

She  knew  nothing  of  this.  She  did  not  notice  that  she  was 
not  asked  often  to  other  houses.  People  were  kind  (the  Skeaton 
people  were  neither  malicious  nor  cruel)  but  left  her  more  and 
more  alone.  She  said  to  herself  again  and  again :  "  I  must  make 
this  a  success — I  must " — but  the  words  were  becoming  mechani- 
cal. It  was  like  tramping  a  treadmill:  she  got  no  further,  only 
became  more  and  more  exhausted.  That  spring  and  summer  people 
noticed  her  white  face  and  strange  eyes.  "  Oh,  she's  a  queer  girl," 
they  said. 

The  summer  was  very  hot  with  a  little  wind  that  blew  the  sand 
everywhere.  Strange  how  that  sand  succeeded  in  penetrating  into 
the  very  depth  of  the  town.  The  sand  lay  upon  the  pavement  of 
the  High  Street  so  that  your  feet  gritted  as  you  walked.  The 
woods  and  houses  lay  for  nearly  two  months  beneath  a  blazing 
sun.  There  was  scarcely  any  rain.  The  little  garden  behind  the 
Rectory  was  parched  and  brown;  the  laurel  bushes  were  grey  with 
dust.  They  saw  very  few  people  that  summer;  many  of  their 
friends  had  escaped. 

Maggie,  thinking  of  the  green  depths  of  Harben  a  year  ago, 
longed  for  its  coolness;  nevertheless  she  was  happy  to  think  that 
she  would  never  have  to  see  Harben  again. 

As  she  had  foretold,  laziness  settled  upon  Paul.  What  he  loved 
best  was  to  sink  into  his  old  armchair  in  the  dusty  study  and  read 
old  volumes  of  Temple  Bar  and  the  Cornhill.  He  had  them  piled 
at  his  side;  he  read  article  after  article  about  such  subjects  as 
"  The  Silkworm  Industry  "  and  "  Street  Signs  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century."  He  was  very  proud  of  his  sermons,  but  now  he  seldom 
gave  a  new  one.  He  always  intended  to.  "  Don't  let  any  one 
disturb  me  to-night,  Maggie,"  he  would  say  at  supper  on  Fridays. 
"  I've  got  my  sermon."  But  on  entering  the  study  he  remembered 
that  there  was  an  article  in  Temple  Bar  that  he  must  finish.  He 
also  read  the  Church  Times  right  through,  including  the  adver- 
tisements.   Grace  gradually  resumed  her  old  functions. 

She  maintained,  however,  an  elaborate  pretence  of  leaving  every- 
thing to  Maggie.  Especially  was  she  delighted  when  Maggie  forgot 
something.  When  that  happened  she  said  nothing;  her  mouth 
curled  a  little.  She  treated  Maggie  less  and  less  to  her  garrulous 
confidences.     They  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  drawing-room  to- 


360  THE  CAPTIVES 

gether  without  exchanging  a  word.  Maggie  and  Paul  had  now 
different  bedrooms.  Early  in  the  autumn  Maggie  had  a  little 
note  from  Mr.  Magnus.    It  said: 

"  You  have  not  written  to  any  of  us  for  months.  Won't  you 
come  just  for  a  night  to  see  your  aunts?  At  least  let  us  know 
that  you  are  happy." 

She  cried  that  night  in  bed,  squeezing  her  head  into  the  pillow 
so  that  no  one  should  hear  her.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  all  her 
pluck.  She  must  do  something,  but  what?  She  did  not  know  how 
to  deal  with  people.  If  they  were  kind  and  friendly  there  were 
so  many  things  that  she  could  do,  but  this  silent  creeping  away 
from  her  paralysed  her.  She  remembered  how  she  had  said  to 
Katherine :  "  No  one  can  make  me  unhappy  if  I  do  not  wish  it 
to  be."  Now  she  did  not  dare  to  think  how  unhappy  she  was. 
She  knew  that  they  all  thought  her  strange  and  odd,  and  she  felt 
that  strangeness  creeping  upon  her.  She  must  be  odd  if  many 
people  thought  her  so.  She  became  terribly  self-conscious,  won- 
dering whether  her  words  and  movements  were  strange. 

She  was  often  so  tired  that  she-  could  not  drag  one  foot  after 
another. 

A  few  weeks  before  Christmas  something  happened.  A  terrible 
thing,  perhaps — but  she  was  delivered  by  it.  .    .    . 

She  was  sitting  one  afternoon  a  few  weeks  before  Christmas  in 
the  drawing-room  alone  with  Grace.  It  was  her  "  At  Home  "  day, 
a  Friday  afternoon.  Grace  was  knitting  a  grey  stocking,  a  long 
one  that  curled  on  her  lap.  She  knitted  badly,  clumsily,  twisting 
her  fingers  into  odd  shapes  and  muddling  her  needles.  Now  and 
then  she  would  look  up  as  though  she  meant  to  talk,  and  then 
remembering  that  it  was  Maggie  who  was  opposite  to  her  she 
would  purse  her  lips  and  look  down  again.  The  fire  hummed  and 
sputtered,  the  clock  ticked,  and  Grace  breathed  in  heavy  despair- 
ing pants  over  the  difficulties  of  her  work.  The  door  opened  and 
the  little  maid,  her  eyes  nervously  wandering  towards  Grace,  mur- 
mured, "  Mr.  Cardinal,  mum." 

The  next  thing  of  which  Maggie  was  conscious  was  Uncle 
Mathew  standing  clumsily  just  inside  the  door  shifting  his  bowler 
hat  between  his  two  hands. 

The  relief  of  seeing  him  was  so  great  that  she  jumped  up  and 
ran  towards  him  crying,  "  Oh,  Uncle  Mathew !  I'm  so  glad !  At 
last ! " 

He  dropped  his  bowler  in  giving  her  his  hand.  She  noticed  at 
once  that  he  was  looking  very  unhappy  and  had  terribly  run  to 
seed. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      361 

He  was  badly  shaved,  his  blue  suit  was  shabby  and  soiled.  He 
was  fatter,  and  his  whole  body  was  flabby  and  uncared  for. 
Maggie  saw  at  once  that  he  had  been  drinking,  not  very  much, 
but  enough  to  make  him  a  little  uncertain  on  his  feet  and  unsteady 
in  his  gaze.  Maggie,  when  she  saw  him,  felt  nothing  but  a  rush 
of  pity  and  desire  to  protect  him.  Very  strangely  she  felt  the 
similarity  between  him  and  herself.     Nobody  wanted   either  of 

(them — they  must  just  love  one  another  because  there  was  no  one 
else  to  love  them. 
She  was  aware  then  that  Grace  had  risen  and  was  standing 
looking  at  them  both. 

She  turned  round  to  her  saying,  "Grace,  this  is  my  uncle. 
You've  heard  me  speak  of  him,  haven't  you?  He  was  very  kind 
to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  .  .  .  Uncle,  this  is  my  sister-in- 
law,  Miss  Trenchard." 

Uncle  Mathew  smiled  and,  rather  unsteadily,  came  forward;  he 
caught  her  hand  in  both  his  damp,  hot  ones.  "  Very  pleased  to 
meet  you,  Miss  Trenchard.  I  know  you've  been  very  good  to  my 
little  Maggie;  at  least  when  I  say  'my  little  Maggie'  she's  not 
mine  any  longer.  She  belongs  to  your  brother  now,  doesn't  she? 
Of  course  she  does.    I  hope  you're  well." 

Maggie  realised  then  the  terrified  distress  in  Grace's  eyes.  The 
grey  stocking  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  Grace  stared  at  Uncle 
Mathew  in  a  kind  of  fascinated  horror.  She  realised  of  course  at 
once  that  he  was  what  she  would  call  "tipsy."  He  was  not 
"  tipsy,"  but  nevertheless  "  tipsy  "  enough  for  Grace.  Maggie  saw 
her  take  in  every  detail  of  his  appearance — his  unshaven  cheeks, 
the  wisps  of  hair  over  the  bald  top  of  his  head,  the  spots  on  his 
waistcoat,  the  mud  on  his  boots,  and  again  as  she  watched  Grace 
make  this  summary,  love  and  protection  for  that  unhappy  man 
filled  her  heart.  For  unhappy  he  was!  She  saw  at  once  that  he 
had  had  a  long  slide  downhill  since  his  last  visit  to  her.  He  was 
frightened — frightened  immediately  now  of  Grace  and  the  room 
and  the  physical  world — but  frightened  also  behind  these  things 
at  some  spectre  all  his  own.  Grace  sat  down  and  tried  to  recover 
herself.  She  began  to  talk  in  her  society  voice.  Maggie  knew  that 
she  was  praying,  over  and  over  again,  with  a  monotony  possible 
only  to  the  very  stupid,  that  there  would  be  no  callers  that  after- 
noon. 

"And  so  you  know  Glebeshire,  Mr.  Cardinal!  Fancy t  I've 
never  been  there — never  been  there  in  my  life.  Fancy  that! 
Although  so  many  of  my  relations  live  there.  I  once  nearly  went 
down,  one  wet  Christmas,  and  I  was  going  to  stay  with  mj  aunt, 


362  THE  CAPTIVES 

but  something  happened  to  prevent  me.  I  think  I  caught  a  cold 
at  the  time.  I  can't  quite  remember.  But  fancy  you  knowing 
Glebeshire  so  well !  " 

All  this  came  out  in  a  voice  that  might  have  issued  from  a 
gramophone,  so  little  did  it  represent  Grace's  real  feelings  or 
emotions.  Maggie  knew  so  well  that  inside  her  head  these  ex- 
clamations were  rising  and  falling :  "  What  a  horrible  man !  What 
a  dreadful  man!  Maggie's  uncle!  We're  lost  if  any  one  calls! 
Oh !  I  do  hope  no  one  calls !  " 

It  was  obvious  meanwhile  that  Mathew  was  urgently  wishing 
for  a  moment  alone  with  Maggie.  He  looked  at  her  with  pleading 
eyes,  and  once  he  winked  towards  Grace.  He  talked  on,  however, 
running  some  of  his  words  into  one  another  and  paying  very  little 
attention  to  anything  that  Grace  might  say :  "  No,  I  haven't  seen 
my  little  niece,  Miss  Trenchard,  for  a  long  time — didn't  like  to 
interfere,  in  a  way.  Thought  she'd  ask  for  me  when  she  wanted 
me.  We've  always  been  the  greatest  friends.  I'm  a  bachelor,  you 
see — never  married.  Not  that  I'd  like  you  to  fancy  that  I've  no 
interest  in  the  other  sex,  far  from  it,  but  I'm  a  wanderer  by 
nature.  A  wife  in  every  port,  perhaps.  Well,  who  knows?  But 
one's  lonely  at  times,  one  is  indeed.  A  pretty  tidy  little  place 
you've  got  here.    Yes,  you  have — with  a  garden  too." 

Paul  came  in,  and  Maggie  saw  him  start  as  Mathew's  stout 
figure  surprised  him.  She  felt  then  a  rush  of  hostility  against 
Paul.  It  was  as  though,  at  every  point,  she  must  run  in  fiercely 
to  defend  her  uncle. 

Meanwhile  Grace's  worst  fears  were  realised.  The  little  maid 
announced  Miss  Purves  and  Mrs.  Maxse.  A  terrible  half-hour 
followed.  Miss  Purves,  as  soon  as  she  understood  that  this  strange 
man  was  Mrs.  Trenchard's  uncle,  was  all  eager  excitement,  and 
Uncle  Mathew,  bewildered  by  so  many  strangers,  confused  by  a 
little  unsteadiness  in  his  legs  that  would  have  been  nothing  had  he 
not  been  in  a  small  room  crowded  with  furniture,  finally  clasped 
Mrs.  Maxse"  by  the  shoulder  in  his  endeavour  to  save  himself  from 
tumbling  over  the  little  table  that  held  the  cakes  and  bread-and- 
butter.  His  hot,  heavy  hand  pressed  into  Mrs.  Maxse's  flesh,  and 
Mrs.  Maxse,  terrified  indeed,  screamed. 

He  began  to  apologise,  and  in  his  agitation  jerked  Miss  Purves' 
cup  of  tea  from  the  table  on  to  the  floor. 

After  that  he  realised  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go.  He 
began  elaborate  apologies.  Paul  saw  him  to  the  door.  He  gripped 
Paul  by  the  hand :  "  I'm  delighted  to  have  met  you,"  he  said  in  full 
hearing  of  the  trembling  ladies.     "  You've  given  me  such  a  good 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR       363 

time.  Give  my  little  Maggie  a  good  time  too.  She's  not  looking 
over  well.    Send  her  up  to  London  to  stay  with  me  for  a  bit." 

Maggie  saw  him  to  the  gate.  In  the  middle  of  the  little  drive 
he  stopped,  turning  towards  her,  leaning  his  hands  heavily  upon 
her.  f  Maggie  dear,"  he  said,  "  I'm  in  a  bad  way,  a  very  bad 
way.    You  won't  desert  me  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  won't,"  she  answered.  "  I  may  want  your  help  in 
a  week  or  two." 

He  looked  dismally  about  him,  at  the  thick,  dull  laurel  bushes 
and  the  heavy,  grey  sky.  "  I  don't  like  this  place,  Maggie,"  he 
said,  "  and  all  those  women.  It's  religion  again,  and  it's  worse 
than  that  Chapel.  You  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  get  away  from 
religion.    You're  not  happy,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  answered  firmly. 

"  No,  you're  not.  And  I'm  not.  But  it  will  be  all  right  in  the 
end,  I've  no  doubt.    You'll  never  desert  me,  Maggie." 

"  I'll  never  desert  you,"  Maggie  answered. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  his  breath  whisky-laden.  She 
kissed  him  eagerly,  tenderly.  For  a  moment  she  felt  that  she 
would  go  with  him,  just  as  she  was,  and  leave  them  all. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  "  you  understand  how  it  is,  don't  you  ?  We'd 
have  asked  you  to  stay  if  we'd  known." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right."  He  looked  at  her  mysteriously.  "  That 
new  sister-in-law  of  yours  was  shocked  with  me.  They  wouldn't 
have  me  in  the  house.  I  saw  that.  And  I  only  had  one  glass  at 
the  station.  I'm  not  much  of  a  man  in  society  now.  That's  the 
trouble.  .  .  .  But  next  time  I'll  come  down  and  just  send  you 
a  line  and  you'll  come  to  see  me  in  my  own  little  place — won't 
you?  I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  mess.  Maggie,  that's  the  truth,  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  get  out  of  it.    I've  been  a  bit  of  a  fool,  I  have." 

She  saw  the  look  of  terror  in  his  eye  again. 

"  Would  some  money — -"  she  suggested. 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it's  past  five  pounds  now,  my  dear."  He  sighed 
heavily.  "  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along.  You'll  catch  your  death 
of  cold  standing  out  here.  We  ought  to  have  been  together  all  this 
time,  you  know.    It  would  have  been  better  for  both  of  us." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  left  her.  She  slowly  returned  into  the 
house.  Curiously,  he  had  made  her  happier  by  his  visit.  Her 
pluck  returned.  She  needed  it.  Grace  was  now  stirred  by  the 
most  active  of  all  her  passions — fear. 

Nevertheless  Grace  and  Paul  behaved  very  well.  Maggie  under- 
stood the  shock  that  visit  must  have  given  them.  She  watched 
Grace  imagining  the  excited  stories  that  would  flow  from  the  lips 


364  THE  CAPTIVES 

of  Miss  Purves  and  Mrs.  Maxse.  She  was  determined,  however, 
that  Grace  and  Paul  should  not  suffer  in  silence — and  Uncle 
Mathew  must  be  vindicated. 

At  supper  that  night  she  plunged : 

"  Uncle  Mathew's  been  very  ill,"  she  began,  "  for  a  long  time 
now.  He  wasn't  himself  this  afternoon,  I'm  afraid.  He  was  very 
upset  at  some  news  that  he'd  just  had.  And  then  meeting  so  many 
strangers  at  once " 

Maggie  saw  that  Grace  avoided  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  think  we'll  discuss  it,  Maggie,  if  you  don't  mind.  Mr. 
Cardinal  was  strange  in  his  behaviour,  certainly.  It  was  a  pity 
that  Miss  Purves  came.    But  it's  better  not  to  discuss  it." 

"  I  don't  agree,"  said  Maggie.  "  If  you  think  that  I'm  ashamed 
of  Uncle  Mathew  you're  quite  wrong.     He's  very  unhappy  and 

lonely "     She  felt  her  voice  tremble.     "He  hasn't  got  any 

one  to  look  after  him " 

Grace's  hand  was  trembling  as  she  nervously  crumbled  her  bread. 
Still  without  looking  at  Maggie  she  said: 

"  By  the  way,  you  did  the  church  flowers  this  morning  didn't 
you,  eh?" 

Maggie  turned  white  and,  as  always  on  these  occasions,  her  heart 
thumped,  leaping,  as  it  seemed,  into  the  very  palms  of  her  hands. 

"  But  it  was  to-morrow "  she  began. 

"  You  remember  that  I  told  you  three  days  ago  that  it  was  to  be 
this  morning  instead  of  the  usual  Thursday  because  of  the 
Morgans'  wedding." 

"  Oh,  Grace,  I'm  so  sorry !  I  had  remembered,  I  had  indeed, 
and  then  Lucy  suddenly  having  that  chill " 

Paul  struck  in.  "  Really,  Maggie,  that's  too  bad.  No  flowers 
to-morrow?  Those  others  were  quite  dead  yesterday.  I  noticed  at 
evensong.  .    .    .  Really,  really.    And  the  Morgans'  wedding !  " 

Maggie  sat  there,  trembling. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  almost  whispering.  Why  did  fate 
play  against  her?  Why,  when  she  might  have  fought  the  Uncle 
Mathew  battle  victoriously,  had  Grace  suddenly  been  given  this 
weapon  with  which  to  strike? 

"  I'll  go  and  do  them  now,"  she  said.  "  I  can  take  those  flowers 
out  of  the  drawing-room." 

"  It's  done,"  Grace  slowly  savouring  her  triumph.  "  I  did  them 
myself  this  afternoon." 

"  Then  you  should  have  told  me  that !  "  Maggie  burst  out.  "  It's 
not  fair  making  me  miserable  just  for  your  own  fun.  You  don't 
know  how  you  hurt,  Grace.    You're  cruel,  you're  cruel!" 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR       365 

She  had  a  horrible  fear  lest  she  should  burst  into  tears.  To  save 
that  terrible  disaster  she  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  hear- 
ing behind  her  Paul's  admonitory  "  Maggie,  Maggie !  " 

It  is  to  be  expected  that  Mrs.  Maxse  and  Miss  Purves  made  the 
most  of  their  story.  The  Rectors  wife  and  a  drunken  uncle !  No, 
it  was  too  good  to  be  true  .    .    .  but  it  was  true,  nevertheless. 

Christmas  passed  and  the  horrible  damp  January  days  arrived. 
Skeaton  was  a  dripping  covering  of  emptiness — hollow,  shallow, 
deserted.  Every  tree,  Maggie  thought,  dripped  twice  as  much  as 
any  other  tree  in  Europe.  It  remained  for  Caroline  Purdie  to 
complete  the  situation.  One  morning  at  breakfast  the  story  burst 
upon  Maggie's  ears.  Grace  was  too  deeply  moved  and  excited  to 
remember  her  hostility.    She  poured  out  the  tale. 

It  appeared  that  for  many  many  months  Caroline  had  not  been 
the  wife  she  should  have  been.  No;  there  had  been  a  young  man, 
a  Mr.  Bennett  from  London.  The  whole  town  had  had  its  sus- 
picions, had  raised  its  pointing  finger,  had  peeped  and  peered  and 
whispered.  The  only  person  who  had  noticed  nothing  was  Mr. 
Purdie  himself.  He  must,  of  course,  have  seen  that  his  house 
was  filled  with  noisy  young  men  and  noisier  young  women;  he 
must  have  realised  that  his  bills  were  high,  that  champagne  was 
drunk  and  cards  were  played,  and  that  his  wife's  attire  was  fan- 
tastically gorgeous.  At  any  rate,  if  he  noticed  these  things  he  said 
nothing.  He  was  a  dull,  silent,  slow-thinking  man,  people  said. 
Then  one  day  he  went  up  to  London  or  rather,  in  the  manner  of 
the  best  modern  problem  play,  he  pretended  to  go,  returned 
abruptly,  and  discovered  Caroline  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Bennett. 

He  flung  Mr.  Bennett  out  of  the  bedroom  window,  breaking  his 
leg  and  his  nose,  and  that  was  why  every  one  knew  the  story. 
What  he  said  to  Caroline  was  uncertain.  He  did  not,  however, 
pack  her  off,  as  Miss  Purves  said  he  should  have  done,  but  rather 
kept  her  in  the  big  ugly  house,  just  as  he  had  done  before,  only 
now  without  the  young  men,  the  young  women,  the  champagne  and 
the  flowers. 

"I  must  go  and  see  her,"  said  Maggie  when  she  heard  this 
story. 

Grace  turned  the  strange  pale  yellow  that  was  her  colour  when 
she  was  disturbed. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  "  I  warn  you  that  if  you  go  to  see  this 
abandoned  woman  you  will  be  insulting  Paul  and  myself  before 
the  whole  town." 

"  She  is  my  friend,"  said  Maggie. 

"  She  is  a  wicked  woman,"  said  Grace,  breathing  very  heavily. 


366  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  and  you're  a  wicked  woman  if  you  go  to  see  her.  You  have 
already  made  Paul  miserable." 

"  That  is  untrue,"  Maggie  said  fiercely.  "  It  is  I  that  have  been 
miserable.  Not  that  it  hasn't  been  my  own  fault.  I  should  never 
have  married  Paul." 

"  No,  you  should  not,"  said  Grace,  breathing  as  though  she  had 
been  running  very  hard.  "  And  for  that  I  was  partly  to  blame. 
But  fancy  what  you've  done  since  you've  been  with  us!  Just 
fancy!  It's  terrible  .  .  .  never  a  greater  mistake  .  .  .  never, 
never." 

Maggie  tossed  her  head.  "  Well,  if  it  was  a  mistake,"  she  said, 
"  the  end  of  pretending  has  come  at  last.  I've  been  trying  for 
nearly  two  years  now  to  go  your  way  and  Paul's.  I  can't  do  it. 
I  can't  alter  myself.  I've  tried,  and  I  can't.  It's  no  use.  Grace, 
we'd  never  get  on.  I  see  it's  been  hopeless  from  the  first.  But 
you  shan't  make  Paul  hate  me.  You've  been  trying  your  hardest, 
but  you  shan't  succeed.  I  know  that  I'm  stupid  and  careless,  but 
it's  no  use  my  pretending  to  be  good  and  quiet  and  obedient.  I'm 
not  good.  I'm  not  quiet.  I'm  not  obedient.  I'm  going  to  be  my- 
self now.  I'm  going  to  have  the  friends  I  want  and  do  the  things 
I  want." 

Grace  moved  back  as  though  she  thought  that  Maggie  were  going 
to  strike  her. 

"  You're  wicked,"  she  said.  "  What  about  those  letters  in  your 
drawer?    You've  never  loved  Paul." 

"  So  you've  been  opening  my  drawers  ?  "  said  Maggie.  "  You're 
worse  than  I,  Grace.  I  never  opened  any  one's  drawers  nor  read 
letters  I  shouldn't.  But  it  doesn't  matter.  There's  nothing  I  want 
to  hide.    Paul  knows  all  about  it.    I'm  not  ashamed." 

"  No,  you're  not,"  Grace's  eyes  were  large  with  terror.  "  You're 
ashamed  at  nothing.  You've  made  every  one  in  the  place  laugh 
at  us.  You've  ruined  Paul's  life  here — yes,  you  have.  But  you 
don't  care.  Do  you  think  I  mind  for  myself?  But  I  love  Paul, 
and  I've  looked  after  him  all  his  life,  and  he  was  happy  until  you 
came — yes,  he  was.  You've  made  us  all  laughed  at.  You're  bad 
all  through,  Maggie,  and  the  laws  of  the  Church  aren't  anything 
to  you  at  all." 

There  was  a  pause.  Maggie,  a  little  calmer,  realised  Grace,  who 
had  sunk  into  a  chair.  She  saw  that  stout  middle-aged  woman 
with  the  flat  expressionless  face  and  the  dull  eyes.  She  saw  the 
flabby  hands  nervously  trembling,  and  she  longed  suddenly  to  be 
kind  and  affectionate. 

"  Oh,   Grace,"   she   cried.     "  I   know   I've   been   everything   I 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR       367 

shouldn't,  only  don't  you  see  I  can't  give  up  my  friends?  And 
I  told  Paul  before  we  married  that  I'd  loved  some  one  else  and 
wasn't  religious.  But  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late.  Let's  be  friends. 
I'll  try  harder  than  ever  before " 

Then  she  saw,  in  the  way  that  Grace  shrank  back,  her  eyes  star- 
ing with  the  glazed  fascination  that  a  bird  has  for  a  snake,  that 
there  was  more  than  dislike  and  jealousy  here,  there  was  the  wild 
unreasoning  fear  that  a  child  has  for  the  dark. 

"  Am  I  like  that  ? "  was  her  own  instinctive  shuddering  thought. 
Then,  almost  running,  she  rushed  up  to  her  bedroom. 


CHAPTEK  VH 

DEATH   OF   AUNT   ANNE 

MAGGIE,  after  that  flight,  faced  her  empty  room  with  a  sense 
of  horror.  Was  there,  truly,  then,  something  awful  about 
her  \  The  child  (for  she  was  indeed  nothing  more)  looked  into  her 
glass,  standing  on  tip-toe  that  she  might  peer  sufficiently  and  saw 
her  face,  pale,  with  its  large  dark  eyes  rimmed  by  the  close-clipped 
hair.  Was  she  then  awful  ?  First  her  father,  then  her  aunts,  then 
the  Warlocks,  now  Grace  and  Paul — not  only  dislike  but  fright, 
terror,  alarm! 

Her  loneliness  crushed  her  in  that  half-hour  as  it  had  never 
crushed  her  since  tha-  day  at  Borhedden.  She  broke  down  al- 
together, kneeling  by  t  e  bed  and  her  head  in  her  pillow  sobbing : 
"  Oh,  Martin,  I  want  you !     Martin,  I  want  you  so !  " 

When  she  was  calmer  she  thought  of  going  down  to  Paul  and 
making  another  appeal  to  him,  but  she  knew  that  such  an  appeal 
could  only  end  in  his  asking  her  to  change  herself,  begging  her 
to  be  more  polite  to  Grace,  more  careful  and  less  forgetful,  and 
of  course  to  give  up  such  people  as  the  Toms  and  Caroline,  and 
then  there  would  come,  after  it  all,  the  question  as  to  whether  she 
intended  to  behave  better  to  himself,  whether  she  would  be  more 
loving,  more.  .  .  .  Oh  no !  she  could  not,  she  could  not,  she  could 
not! 

She  saw  the  impossibility  of  it  so  plainly  that  it  was  a  relief 
to  her  and  she  washed  her  face  and  brushed  her  hair  and  plucked 
up  courage  to  regard  herself  normally  once  more.  "  I'm  not  dif- 
ferent," she  said  to  the  looking-glass.  "  There's  no  reason  for 
Grace  to  make  faces."  She  saw  that  the  breach  between  herself 
and  Grace  had  become  irreparable,  and  that  whatever  else  hap- 
pened in  the  future  at  least  it  was  certain  that  they  would  never 
be  friends  again. 

She  went  downstairs  prepared  to  do  battle.  .    .    . 

Next  morning  she  paid  her  visit  to  Caroline.  It  was  a  strange 
affair.  The  girl  was  sitting  alone  in  her  over-gorgeous  house, 
her  hands  on  her  lap,  looking  out  of  the  window,  an  unusual 
position  for  her  to  be  in. 

Caroline  was  at  first  very  stiff  and  haughty,  expecting  that 
Maggie  had  come  to  scold  her. 

368 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  369 

"  I  just  looked  in  to  see  how  you  were,"  said  Maggie.  , 

"  You  might  have  come  before,"  answered  Caroline.  "  It's  years 
since  you've  been  near  me." 

"  I  didn't  like  all  those  people  you  had  in  your  house,"  said 
Maggie.    "  I  like  it  better  now  there's  no  one  in  it." 

That  was  not,  perhaps,  very  tactful  of  her.    Caroline  flushed. 

"  I  could  have  them  all  here  now  if  I  wanted  to  ask  them,"  she 
answered  angrily. 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad  you'd  rather  be  without  them,"  said 
Maggie.    "  They  weren't  worthy  of  you,  Caroline." 

"  Oh !  What's  the  use  going  on  talking  like  this ! "  Caroline 
broke  out.  "  Of  course  you've  heard  all  about  everything.  Every 
one  has.  I  can't  put  my  nose  outside  the  door  without  them 
all  peering  at  me.  I  hate  them  all — all  of  them — and  the  place 
too,  and  every  one  in  it." 

"  I  expect  you  do "  said  Maggie  sympathetically. 

"  Nasty  cats !  As  though  they'd  never  done  anything  wrong 
all  their  days.  It  was  mostly  Alfred's  fault  too.  What  does  he 
expect  when  he  leaves  me  all  alone  here  week  after  week  eating 
one's  heart  out.  One  must  do  something  with  one's  time.  Just 
like  all  men !  At  first  there's  nothing  too  good  for  you,  then  when 
they  get  used  to  it  they  can't  be  bothered  about  anything.  I 
wonder  what  a  man  thinks  married  life  is?  Then  to  listen  to 
Alfred,  you'd  think  we  were  still  living  in  the  days  of  the  Good 
Queen  Victoria — you  would  indeed.  Wouldn't  let  me  go  up  to 
London  alone!  There's  a  nice  thing  for  you.  And  all  because 
he  did  let  me  go  once  and  I  meant  to  stay  with  mother  and 
mother  was  away.  So  I  had  to  sleep  at  a  hotel.  Why  shouldn't 
I  sleep  at  a  hotel!  I'm  not  a  baby.  And  now  he  keeps  me  here 
like  a  prisoner.     Just  as  though  I  were  in  jail." 

"  Is  he  unkind  to  you  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"No,  he  isn't.  It's  his  horrible  kindness  I  can't  stand.  He 
won't  divorce  me,  he  won't  let  me  go  away,  he  just  keeps  me  here 
and  is  so  kind  and  patient  that  I  could  kill  him.  I  shall  one 
day.  I  know  I  shall."  She  stood  for  a  moment,  pouting  and 
looking  out  of  the  window.  Then  suddenly  she  turned  and,  flinging 
her  arms  around  Maggie,  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Maggie!  I'm  so  miserable.  .  .  .  I'm  so  miserable, 
Maggie!  Why  did  I  ever  come  here?  Why  did  I  ever  marry? 
I  was  so  happy  at  home  with  mother." 

Maggie  comforted  her,  persuading  her  that  all  would  soon  be 
well,  that  people  very  quickly  forgot  their  little  pieces  of  scandal, 
and  that  so  long  as  she  di  1  not  run  away  or  do  anything  really 


370  THE  CAPTIVES 

desperate  all  would  come  right.  Maggie  discovered  that  Caroline 
had  escaped  from  her  crisis  with  an  increased  respect  and  even 
affection  for  her  husband.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  and  was  the 
sort  of  woman  who  must  be  afraid  of  her  husband  before  her 
married  life  can  settle  into  any  kind  of  security. 

"  And  I  thought  you'd  altogether  abandoned  me ! "  she  ended. 

"  I  wasn't  coming  while  all  those  people  were  about,"  said 
Maggie. 

"  You  darling !  "  cried  Caroline,  kissing  her.  "  Just  the  same 
as  you  used  to  be.  I  was  angry  I  can  tell  you  when  month  after 
month  went  by  and  you  never  came  near  me.  I  used  to  tell 
people  when  they  asked  me  that  you  were  odd.  '  She's  not  a  bit 
like  other  people/  I  would  say ;  '  not  a  bit  and  it's  no  use  expecting 
her  to  be.  She's  always  been  queer.  I  used  to  know  her  in 
London.'  They  do  think  you  odd  here,  darling.  They  do  indeed. 
No  one  understands  you.  So  odd  for  a  clergyman's  wife.  Well, 
so  you  are,  aren't  you?  I  always  tell  them  you  had  no  bringing 
up." 

Caroline  in  fact  very  quickly  recovered  her  flow.  As  soon  as 
she  found  that  Maggie  was  not  shocked  she  reasserted  her  old 
superiority.  Before  the  visit  was  over  she  had  rather  despised 
Maggie  for  not  being  shocked.  At  Maggie's  departure,  however, 
she  was  very  loving. 

"  You  will  come  soon  again,  darling,  won't  you?  It's  no  use 
asking  you  to  dinner  because,  of  course,  your  husband  won't 
come.  But  look  in  any  afternoon — or  we  might  go  for  a  drive 
in  the  motor.    Good-bye — good-bye." 

Maggie,  on  her  return,  found  Grace  looking  at  the  mid-day 
post  in  the  hall.  She  always  did  this  in  a  very  short-sighted 
way,  taking  up  the  letters  one  by  one,  holding  each  very  close 
to  her  eyes,  and  sniffing  at  it  as  though  she  were  trying  to  read 
through  the  envelope.  This  always  irritated  Maggie,  although 
her  own  letters  were  not  very  many.  To-night,  when  she  heard 
the  hall  door  open,  she  turned  and  dropped  the  letters,  giving 
that  especial  creaking  little  gasp  that  she  always  did  when  she 
was  startled. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Maggie,  is  it  ?     Where've  you  been  ? " 

"  I've  been  to  see  Mrs.  Purdie,"  Maggie  said  defiantly. 

Grace  paused  as  though  she  were  going  to  speak,  then  turned 
on  her  heel.  But  just  as  she  reached  the  sitting-room  door  she 
said,  breathing  heavily: 

"  There's  a  telegram  for  you  there." 

Maggie  saw   it  lying   on   the   table.     She   picked   it   up    and 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  371 

hesitated.  A  wild  beating  of  the  heart  told  her  that  it  must  be 
from  Martin.  She  didn't  know  what  told  her  this  except  that 
now  for  so  long  she  had  been  expecting  to  see  a  telegram  lying 
in  just  this  way  on  the  table,  waiting  for  her.  She  took  it  up 
with  a  hand  that  trembled.    She  tore  it  open  and  read: 

"  Come  at  once.  Your  aunt  dying.  Wishes  to  see  you. 
Magnus." 

No  need  to  ask  which  aunt.  When  one  aunt  was  mentioned 
it  was  Aunt  Anne — of  course.  Oh,  poor  Aunt  Anne!  Maggie 
longed  for  her,  longed  to  be  with  her,  longed  to  be  kind  to  her, 
longed  to  comfort  her.  And  Mr.  Magnus  and  Martha  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth  and  the  cat — she  must  go  at  once,  she  must  catch  a  train 
after  luncheon. 

She  went  impetuously  into  her  husband's  study. 

"  Oh,  Paul ! "  she  cried.  "  Aunt  Anne's  dying,  and  I  must 
go  to  her  at  once." 

Paul  was  sitting  in  his  old  armchair  before  the  fire;  he  was 
wearing  faded  brown  slippers  that  flapped  at  his  heels;  his  white 
hair  was  tangled;  his  legs  were  crossed,  the  fat  broad  thighs 
pressing  out  against  the  shiny  black  cloth  of  his  trousers.  He 
was  chuckling  over  an  instalment  of  Anthony  Trollope's  "  Brown 
Jones  and  Robinson"  in  a  very  ancient  Cornhill. 

He  looked  up.     "  Maggie,  you  know  it's  my  sermon-morning — 

interruptions "     He  had  dropped  the  Cornhill,  but  not  fast 

enough  to  hide  it  from  her. 

She  looked  around  at  the  dirty  untidiness  of  the  study.  "  It's 
all  my  fault,  this,"  she  thought.  "  I  should  have  kept  him  clean 
and  neat  and  keen  on  his  work.    I  haven't.    I've  failed." 

Then  her  next  thought  was :  "  Grace  wouldn't  let  me " 

The  study,  in  fact,  was  more  untidy  than  ever,  the  pictures 
were  back  in  their  places  whence  Maggie  had  once  removed 
them. 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  one  another.  If  she  felt :  "  I've 
not  managed  my  duty,"  he  felt  perhaps:  "What  a  child  she  is 
after  all ! "  But  between  them  there  was  the  gulf  of  their  past 
experience. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said,  yawning.  "  Is  she  an  old 
lady?" 

"  No,  she's  not,"  said  Maggie,  breathing  very  quickly.  "  I  love 
her  very  much.  I've  been  thinking,  Paul,  I've  not  been  good 
about  my  relations  all  this  time.  I  ought  to  have  seen  them  more. 
I  must  go  up  to  London  at  once." 

"  H  your  aunt's  bad  and  wants  you,  I  suppose  you  must,"  he 


372  THE  CAPTIVES 

answered.  He  got  up  and  came  over  to  her.  He  kissed  her 
suddenly. 

"  You'll  be  wanting  some  money,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be  long 
away.    I'll  miss  you." 

She  caught  the  2.30  train.  It  seemed  very  strange  to  her 
to  be  sitting  in  it  alone  after  the  many  months  when  she  had 
been  always  either  with  Grace  or  Paul.  An  odd  sense  of  adventure 
surrounded  her,  and  she  felt  as  though  she  were  now  at  last 
approaching  the  climax  to  which  the  slow  events  of  the  last  two 
years  had  been  leading.  When  she  had  been  a  little  girl  one  of 
the  few  interesting  books  in  the  house  had  been  The  Mysteries  of 
Udulpho.  She  could  see  the  romance  now,  with  its  four  dumpy 
volumes,  the  F's  so  confusingly  like  S's,  the  faded  print,  and 
the  yellowing  page. 

She  could  remember  little  enough  of  it,  but  there  had  been  one 
scene  near  the  beginning  of  the  story  when  the  heroine,  Emily, 
looking  for  something  in  the  dusk,  had  noticed  some  lines  pencilled 
on  the  wainscot;  these  mysterious  pencilled  lines  had  been  the 
beginning  of  all  her  troubles,  and  Maggie,  as  a  small  girl,  had 
approached  sometimes  in  the  evening  dusk  the  walls  of  her  attic 
to  see  whether  there  too  verses  had  been  scribbled.  Now,  obscure 
in  the  corner  of  her  carriage,  she  felt  as  though  the  telegram 
had  been  a  pencilled  message  presaging  some  great  event  that  would 
shortly  change  her  life. 

It  was  a  dark  and  gloomy  day,  misty  with  a  gale  of  wind 
that  blew  the  smoke  into  curls  and  eddies  against  the  sky.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  roar  about  the  vast  London  station  that  threatened 
her  personally,  but  she  beat  down  her  fears,  found  a  taxi,  and  gave 
the  driver  the  well-remembered  address. 

As  they  drove  along  she  felt  how  much  older,  how  much  older 
she  was  then  than  when  she  was  last  in  London.  Then  she  had 
been  ignorant  of  all  life  and  the  world,  now  she  felt  that  she  was 
an  old,  old  woman  with  an  infinite  knowledge  of  marriage  and 
men  and  women  and  the  way  they  lived.  She  looked  upon  her 
aunts  and  indeed  all  that  world  that  had  surrounded  the  Chapel 
as  something  infinitely  childish,  and  for  that  reason  rather  sweet 
and  touching.  She  could  be  kind  and  friendly  even  to  Amy 
Warlock  she  thought.  She  wished  that  she  had  some  excuse  so 
that  she  might  stay  in  London  a  week  or  two.  She  felt  that  she 
could  stretch  her  limbs  and  breathe  again  now  that  she  was  out 
of  Grace's  sight. 

And  she  would  find  out  Uncle  Mathew's  address  and  pay  him 
a    surprise  visit.  .   .    .  She    laughed    in    the    cab    and    felt   gay 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  373 

and  light-hearted  until  she  remembered  the  cause  of  her  visit. 
Poor,  poor  Aunt  Anne!  Oh,  she  did  hope  that  she  would  be 
well  enough  to  recognise  her  and  to  show  pleasure  at  seeing  her. 
The  cab  had  stopped  in  the  well-remembered  street  before  the  same 
old  secret-looking  house.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  changed,  and 
the  sight  of  it  all  brought  Martin  back  to  her  with  so  fierce  a 
pang  that  for  a  moment  breath  seemed  to  leave  her  body.  It 
was  just  near  here,  only  a  few  steps  away,  that  he  had  suddenly 
appeared,  as  though  from  the  very  paving-stones,  when  she  had 
been  with  Uncle  Mathew,  and  then  had  gone  to  supper  with  him. 
It  was  from  this  door  that  he  had  run  on  that  last  desperate  day. 
She  looked  up  at  the  windows;  the  blinds  were  not  down; 
her  aunt  was  yet  alive;  she  paid  the  taxi  and  rang  the 
bell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Martha,  who  seemed  infinitely  older 
and  more  wrinkled  than  on  the  last  occasion,  her  old  face  was 
yellow  like  drawn  parchment  and  her  thin  grey  hairs  were  pasted 
back  over  her  old  skull;  she  was  wearing  black  mittens. 

"  Miss  Maggie ! "  and  there  was  a  real  welcome  in  her  voice. 
Maggie  was  drawn  into  the  dark  little  hall  that  smelt  of  cracknel 
biscuits  and  lamp  oil,  there  was  the  green  baize  door,  and  then 
suddenly  the  shrill  cry  of  the  parrot,  and  then,  out  of  the  dark, 
the  fiery  eyes  of  Thomas  the  cat. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Maggie !  "  said  Martha.  "  Or  I  suppose  I  should 
say  'Mrs.'  now.    It's  a  long,  long  time.   ..." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Maggie.    "  How  is  my  aunt  ? " 

"  If  she  lives  through  the  night  they'll  be  surprised"  Martha 
answered,  wheezing  and  sighing.    "  Yes,  the  doctor  says — *  If  Miss 

Cardinal  sees  morning,'  he  says "     Then  as  Maggie  hesitated 

at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase.  "  If  you'd  go  straight  to  the 
drawing-room,  Miss,  Mum,  Mr.  Magnus  is  waiting  tea  for  you 
there." 

Maggie  went  up,  past  the  Armed  Men  into  the  old  room.  She 
could  have  kissed  all  the  things  for  their  old  remembered  in- 
timacy and  friendliness,  the  pictures,  the  books,  the  old  faded 
carpet,  the  fire-screen,  the  chairs  and  wall-papers.  There,  too. 
was  Mr.  Magnus,  looking  just  as  he  used  to  look,  with  his  spectacles 
and  his  projecting  ears,  his  timid  smile  and  apologetic  voice.  He 
did  seem  for  a  moment  afraid  of  her,  then  her  boyish  air,  her 
unfeigned  pleasure  and  happiness  at  being  back  there  again,  and 
a  certain  childish  awkwardness  with  which  she  shook  hands 
and  sat  herself  behind  the  little  tea-table  reassured  him: 

"  You're  not  changed  at  all,"  he  told  her. 


374  THE  CAPTIVES 

"Isn't  that  dreadful?"  she  said;  "when  all  the  way  in  the 
cab  I've  been  telling  myself  how  utterly  different  I  am." 

"  I  suppose  you  feel  older  ? "  he  asked  her. 

"Older!     Why,  centuries!" 

"  You  don't  look  a  day,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

"  That's  my  short  hair,"  she  answered,  smiling  back  at  him, 
•  and  not  being  able  to  wear  my  clothes  like  a  grown  woman. 
It's  a  fact  that  I  can't  get  used  to  long  skirts,  and  in  Skeaton 

it's  bad  form  to  cross  your  knees.     I  try  and  remember "  she 

sighed.     "  The  truth  is  I  forget  everything  just  as  I  used  to." 

"How  is  Aunt?"  she  asked  him.  He  looked  very  grave,  and 
behind  his  smiles  and  welcome  to  her  she  saw  that  he  was  a 
tired  and  even  exhausted  man. 

"  They  don't  think  she  can  live  through  the  night,"  he  answered 
her,  "  but,  thank  God,  she's  out  of  all  pain  and  will  never  suffer 
any  more.  She's  tranquil  in  her  mind  too,  and  the  one  thing 
she  wanted  to  put  her  quiet  was  to  see  you.  She's  been  worrying 
about  you  for  months.  Why  didn't  you  come  up  to  see  us  all  this 
time,  Maggie?     That  wasn't  kind  of  you." 

"  No,  it  wasn't,"  said  Maggie.    "  But  I  didn't  dare." 

"  Didn't  dare  ?  "  he  asked,  astonished. 

"  No,  there  were  things  all  this  would  have  reminded  me  of 
too  badly.     It  wasn't  safe  to  be  reminded  of  them." 

"  Haven't  you  been  happy,  then,  there  ? "  he  asked  her  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  didn't  look  up  at  him.  "  I  made  a 
mistake  in  doing  it.  It  was  my  fault,  not  theirs.  No,  I  haven't 
been  happy  if  you  want  to  know.  And  I  shan't  be.  There's  no 
chance.  It's  all  wrong;  they  all  hate  me.  I  seem  to  them  odd, 
mad,  like  a  witch  they  used  to  burn  in  the  old  days.  And  I  can't 
alter  myself.    And  I  don't  want  to." 

It  was  amazing  what  good  it  did  her  to  bring  all  this  out. 
She  had  said  none  of  it  to  any  one  before. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  sighed  Mr.  Magnus.  "  I  hadn't  known. 
I  thought  it  was  all  going  so  well.  But  don't  tell  your  aunt  this. 
When  she  asks  you,  say  you're  very,  very  happy  and  it's  all  going 
perfectly.    She  must  die  at  peace.    Will  you,  my  dear,  will  you  ? " 

His  almost  trembling  anxiety  touched  her. 

"  Why,  dear  Mr.  Magnus,  of  course  I  will.  And  I  am  happy 
now  that  I'm  back  with  all  of  you.     All  I  want  is  for  people  to 

be  fond  of  me,  you  know,  but  there's  something  in  me "     She 

jumped  up  and  stood  in  front  of  him.  "Mr.  Magnus!  You're 
wise,  you  write  books,  you  know  all  about  things,  tell  me — tell 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  375 

me  the  absolute  truth.  Am  I  odd,  am  I  queer,  am  I  like  a  witch 
that  ought  to  be  burnt  at  the  stake  ? " 

He  was  deeply  touched.  He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders, 
then  suddenly  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

"I  don't  find  you  odd,  my  dear,  but  then,  God  forgive  me, 
I'm  odd  myself.  We're  all  rather  odd  in  this  house,  I'm  afraid. 
But  don't  you  worry,  Maggie.  You're  worth  a  waggon-load  of 
ordinary  people." 

She  drew  slowly  away.     She  sighed. 

"  I  wish  Paul  and  Grace  only  thought  so,"  she  said. 

They  had  a  quiet  little  tea  together;  Maggie  was  longing  to  ask 
Mr.  Magnus  questions  about  himself,  but  she  didn't  dare  to  do 
so.  He  wrapped  himself  in  a  reserved  friendly  melancholy  which 
she  could  not  penetrate.  He  looked  so  much  older,  so  much  more 
faded,  as  though  tbe  heat  and  fire  had  gradually  stolen  away  from 
him  and  left  him  only  the  grey  ghost  of  what  he  had  been 

"  Are  you  writing  any  books,  Mr.  Magnus  ? "  she  asked  him. 

"Any  books?"  he  answered  smiling.  "Surely  one  would  be 
enough,  my  dear.  I  have  one  half-finished  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
but  it's  not  satisfactory.  If  it  weren't  for  the  bread  and  butter 
I  don't  think  I'd  ever  tackle  it  again.  Or  rather  the  bread, 
I  should  say.    It's  precious  little  butter  it  brings  in." 

"What's  it  called?"  she  asked. 

"  ■  The  Toad  in  the  Hole,' "  he  said. 

"  What  a  funny  name !     What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  He  shook  his  head.  "  It  meant  something 
when  I  began  it,  but  the  meaning  doesn't  seem  important  now." 

In  a  little  while  he  left  her,  saying :  "  Now  if  I  were  you  I'd 
take  a  little  nap,  and  later  on  I'll  wake  you  and  we'll  go  and 
see  your  aunt." 

She  slept,  lying  back  in  the  blue  armchair  in  front  of  the 
fire,  with  only  the  leaping  flames  as  light  to  the  room.  Strange 
and  dim  but  unspeakably  sweet  were  her  dreams.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  escaped  for  ever  from  Paul  and  Grace  and  Skeaton, 
and  that  in  some  strange  way  Martin  was  back  with  her  again, 
the  same  old  Martin,  with  his  laugh  and  the  light  in  his  eyes 
and  his  rough  red  face.  He  had  come  into  the  room — he  was 
standing  by  the  door  looking  at  her;  she  ran  to  him,  her  hands 
stretched  out,  cries  of  joy  on  her  lips,  but  even  as  she  reached 
him  there  was  a  cry  through  the  house :  "  Your  Aunt  Anne  is 
dead!  Your  Aunt  Anne  is  dead!"  and  all  the  bells  began  to  toll, 
and  she  was  in  the  Chapel  again  and  great  crowds  surged  past 
her.    Aunt  Anne's  bier  borne  on  high  above  them  all.    She  cried 


376  THE  CAPTIVES 

aloud,  and  woke  to  find  Mr.  Magnus  standing  at  her  side;  one 
glance  at  him  told  her  that  he  was  in  terrible  distress. 

"  You  must  come  at  once,"  he  said.  "  Your  aunt  may  have 
only  a  few  minutes  to  live." 

She  followed  him,  still  only  half-awake,  rubbing  her  eyes  with 
her  knuckles,  and  feeling  as  though  she  were  continuing  that 
episode  when  Martha  had  led  her  at  the  dead  of  night  into  her 
aunt's  bedroom. 

The  chill  of  the  passages  however  woke  her  fully,  and  then  her 
one  longing  and  desire  was  that  Aunt  Anne  should  be  conscious 
enough  to  recognise  her  and  be  aware  of  her  love  for  her. 

The  close  room,  with  its  smell  of  medicines  and  eau-de-Cologne 
and  its  strange  breathless  hush,  frightened  her  just  as  it  had 
done  once  before.  She  saw  again  the  religious  picture,  the  bleeding 
Christ  and  the  crucifix,  the  high  white  bed,  the  dim  windows 
and  the  little  table  with  the  bottles  and  the  glasses.  It  was  all 
as  it  had  been  before.  Her  terror  grew.  She  felt  as  though  no 
power  could  drag  her  to  that  bed.  Something  lurked  there, 
something  horrible  and  unclean,  that  would  spring  upon  her  and 
hold  her  down  with  its  claws.   .    .    . 

"  Maggie !  "  said  the  clear  faint  voice  that  she  knew  so  well. 
Her  terror  left  her.  She  did  not  notice  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  was 
seated  close  to  the  bed,  nor  Mr.  Magnus,  nor  the  nurse,  nor  the 
doctor.    She  went  forward  unafraid. 

"Doctor,  would  you  mind  ..."  the  voice  went  on.  "Three 
minutes  alone  with  my  niece.  ..."  The  doctor,  a  stout  red-faced 
man,  said  something,  the  figures,  all  shadowy  in  the  dim  light, 
withdrew. 

Maggie  was  aware  of  nothing  except  that  there  was  something 
of  the  utmost  urgency  that  she  must  say.  She  came  close  to 
the  bed,  found  a  chair  there,  sat  down  and  bent  forward.  There 
her  aunt  was  lying,  the  black  hair  in  a  dark  shadow  across  the 
pillow,  the  face  white  and  sharp,  and  the  eyes  burning  with  a 
fierce  far-seeing  light. 

They  had  the  intense  gaze  of  a  blind  man  to  whom  sight  has 
suddenly  been  given :  he  cries  "  I  see !  I  see !  "  stretching  out  his 
arms  towards  the  sun,  the  trees,  the  rich  green  fields.  She 
turned  her  head  and  put  both  her  hands  about  Maggie's;  she 
smiled. 

Maggie  said,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  do  you  feel  bad  ? n 

"  No  dear.  I'm  in  no  pain  at  all.  Now  that  you've  come  I'm 
quite  happy.  It  was  my  one  anxiety."  Her  voice  was  very  faint, 
so  that  Maggie  had  to  lean  forward  to  catch  the  words. 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  377 

"  You'll  have  thought  me  unkind  all  this  time,"  said  Maggie, 
*  not  to  have  come,  but  it  hasn't  been  unkindness.  Many  times 
I've  wanted,  but  there  seemed  to  be  so  much  to  do  that  it  wasn't 
right  to  come  away." 

"Are  you  happy,  dear?"  Aunt  .Anne  said  in  her  ghostly 
whisper. 

"  Very,  very  happy,"  said  Maggie,  remembering  what  Mr. 
Magnus  had  said  to  her. 

Aunt  Anne  sighed.  *  Ah,  that's  good.  It  was  my  one  worry 
that  you  mightn't  be  happy.  I  was  all  wrong  about  you,  Maggie, 
trying  to  push  you  my  way  instead  of  letting  you  go  your  own. 
I  should  have  waited  for  God  to  show  His  direction.     But  I  was 

impatient — and  if  you  were  unhappy "     She  broke  off  and  for 

a  moment  Maggie  thought  that  she  would  speak  no  more.  She  lay 
there,  with  her  eyes  closed,  like  a  waxen  image. 

She  went  on  again :  "  I've  always  loved  you,  Maggie,  from  the 
very  first,  but  I  was  so  impatient  for  you  to  come  to  God.  I 
thought  He  would  reveal  Himself  and  you  not  be  ready.  He  did 
reveal  Himself,  but  not  as  I  had  thought.  He  came  that  night 
and  took  Mr.  Warlock  with  Him — that  was  true,  Maggie,  that 
night.  All  true — All  true.  God  will  show  you  His  way.  It  will 
be  revealed  to  you.  Heaven  and  its  glories.  God  and  His  dear 
Son.  ..." 

She  stopped  again  and  lay  with  her  eyes  closed. 

Maggie  timidly,  at  last,  said : 

"  Aunt  Anne,  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  my  wicked- 
ness. I  didn't  mean  to  be  wicked,  but  I  just  couldn't  say  my 
feelings  out  loud.  I  was  shy  of  them  somehow.  I  still  am, 
perhaps.  Maybe  I  always  will  be.  But  I  just  want  to  say 
that  I  know  now  how  good  you  were  to  me  all  that  time  and 
I'm  grateful  from  my  heart. 

"  You'll  get  better  won't  you,  Aunt  Anne,  and  then  I'll  come 
often?  I'm  shy  to  say  my  feelings,  but  I  love  you,  Aunt  Anne, 
for  what  you've  been  to  me." 

She  stopped.  There  was  a  deathly  stillness  in  the  chamber. 
The  lamp  had  sunk  low  and  the  fire  was  a  gold  cavern.  Dusk 
stole  on  stealthy  feet  from  wall  to  wall.  Aunt  Anne  did  not, 
it  seemed,  breathe.  Her  hands  had  dropped  from  Maggie's  and  her 
arms  lay  straight  upon  the  sheet.    Her  eyes  were  closed. 

Suddenly  she  whispered: 

"Dear  Maggie  .  .  .  Maggie.  .  .  .  My  Lord  and  my  God. 
.    .    .  My  Master.  ..." 

Then  very  faintly: 


378  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd.  .  .  .  My  Shepherd.  .  .  .  He  shall 
lead  me  forth  .  .  .  beside  the  pastures  .  .  .  my  rod  and  my 
staff.  ...  The  Lord  ..." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  and  her  head  rolled  to  one  side. 

Maggie,  with  a  startled  fear,  was  suddenly  conscious  that  she 
was  alone  in  the  room.  She  went  to  the  door  and  called  for  the 
doctor.  As  they  gathered  about  the  bed  the  caverns  of  the 
fire  fell  with  the  sharp  sound  of  a  closing  door. 

Next  morning  Maggie  wrote  to  Paul  telling  him  that  her 
aunt  was  dead,  that  the  funeral  would  be  in  two  days'  time, 
and  that  she  would  stay  in  London  until  that  was  over.  She 
had  not  very  much  time  just  then  to  think  of  the  house  and 
the  dead  woman  in  it,  because  on  the  breakfast-table  there  was 
this  letter  for  her. 

23  Cromwell  Ed., 
Kensington,  March  12,  1912. 
Dear  Mrs.  Trenchard, 

I  hear  that  you  have  come  to  London  to  visit  your  aunt.  I  have 
been  hoping  for  some  time  past  to  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
you.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  have  no  wish  at  all  to  see  me;  at  the 
same  time  I  do  beg  you  to  give  me  half  an  hour  at  the  above 
address.  Five  o'clock  to-morrow  would  be  a  good  time.  Please  ask 
for  Miss  Warlock. 

Believe  me, 

Yours  faithfully, 

Amy  Warlock. 

Maggie  stared  at  the  signature,  then,  with  a  thickly  beating 
heart,  decided  that  of  course  she  would  go.  She  was  not  afraid 
but — Martin's  sister!  What  would  come  of  it?  The  house  was 
strangely  silent;  Aunt  Elizabeth  sniffed  into  her  handkerchief  a 
good  deal;  Mr.  Magnus,  his  face  strained  with  a  look  of  intense 
fatigue,  went  out  about  some  business.  The  blinds  of  the  house 
were  down  and  all  the  rooms  were  bathed  in  a  green  twilight. 

About  quarter  past  four  Maggie  went  down  into  the  Strand  and 
found  a  cab.  She  gave  the  address  and  off  they  went.  Sitting 
in  the  corner  of  the  cab  she  seemed  to  be  an  entirely  passive 
spectator  of  events  that  were  being  played  before  her.  She 
knew,  remotely,  that  Aunt  Anne's  death  had  deeply  affected  her, 
that  coming  back  to  the  old  house  had  deeply  affected  her,  and 
that  this  interview  with  Amy  Warlock  might  simply  fasten  on 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  379 

her  the  fate  that  she  had  for  many  months  now  seen  in  front 
of  her.    She  could  not  escape;  and  she  did  not  want  to  escape. 

They  found  the  house,  a  very  grimy  looking  one,  in  the  inter- 
minable Cromwell  Road.  Maggie  rang  a  jangling  bell,  and  the 
door  was  ultimately  opened  by  a  woman  with  sleeves  turned  up  at 
the  elbows  and  a  dirty  apron. 

"Is  Miss  Warlock  at  home?"     The  woman  sniffed. 

"  I  expect  so,"  she  said.     "  Most  times  she  is.     What  name  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Trenchard,"  Maggie  said. 

She  was  admitted  into  a  hall  that  smelt  of  food  and  seemed 
in  the  half-light  to  be  full  of  umbrellas.  The  woman  went  upstairs, 
but  soon  returned  to  say  that  Miss  Warlock  would  see  the  lady. 

Maggie  found  that  in  the  sitting-room  the  gas  was  dimly  burn- 
ing. There  was  the  usual  lodging-house  furniture,  and  on  a 
faded  red  sofa  near  the  fire  old  Mrs.  Warlock  was  lying.  Maggie 
could  not  see  her  very  clearly  in  the  half-light,  but  there  was 
something  about  her  immobility  and  the  stiffness  of  her  head 
(decorated  as  of  old  with  its  frilly  white  cap)  that  reminded  one 
of  a  figure  made  out  of  wax.  Maggie  turned  to  find  Amy  Warlock 
standing  close  to  her. 

"  Mrs.  Thurston "   Maggie  began,  hesitating. 

M  You  may  not  know,"  said  Amy  Warlock,  "  that  I  have  retained 
my  maiden  name.  Sit  down,  won't  you?  It  is  good  of  you  to 
have  come." 

The  voice  was  a  little  more  genial  than  it  had  been  in  the 
old  days.  Nevertheless  this  was  still  the  old  Amy  Warlock,  stiff, 
masculine,  impenetrable. 

N  I  hope  your  aunt  is  better,"  she  said. 

"  My  aunt  is  dead,"  answered  Maggie. 

"  Dear  me,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  She  was  a  good  woman  and 
did  many  kind  actions  in  her  time." 

There  was  something  very  unpleasant  about  that  room,  with 
the  yellow  light,  the  hissing  gas,  and  the  immobile  figure  on 
the  sofa.     Maggie  looked  in  the  direction  of  old  Mrs.  Warlock. 

"  You  needn't  mind  mother,"  said  Amy  Warlock.  "  For  some 
time  now  she's  been  completely  paralysed.  She  can't  speak  or 
move.  But  she  likes  to  be  downstairs,  to  see  the  world  a  bit.  It's 
sad  after  the  way  that  she  used  to  enjoy  life.  Father's  death  was 
a  great  shock  to  her." 

It  was  sad.  Maggie  remembered  how  fond  she  had  been  of 
her  food.  Like  a  waxen  image!  Like  a  waxen  image!  The 
whole  room  was  ghoulish  and  unnatural. 

"  I've  asked  you  to  come  and  see  me,  Mrs.  Trenchard,"  con- 


380  THE  CAPTIVES 

tinued  Miss  Warlock,  "  not  because  we  can  have  any  wish  to 
meet,  I  am  sure.  We  have  never  liked  one  another.  But  I 
have  something  on  my  conscience,  and  I  may  not  have  another 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  you.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  heard 
that  very  shortly  I  intend  to  enter  a  nunnery  at  Roehampton." 

"  And  your  mother  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Mother  will  go  into  a  Home,"  answered  Miss  Warlock. 

There  was  a  strange  little  sound  from  the  sofa  like  a  rat 
nibbling  behind  the  wainscot. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Warlock,  speaking  apparently  with 
some  difficulty,  "  that  I  have  done  you  a  wrong.  Shortly  after  my 
father's  death  my  brother  wrote  to  you  from  Paris." 

"  Wrote  to  me  ?  "  repeated  Maggie. 

"  Yes — wrote  to  you  through  me.  I  destroyed  the  letters.  He 
wrote  then  five  times  in  rather  swift  succession.  I  destroyed 
all  the  letters." 

Maggie  said  nothing. 

"I  destroyed  the  letters,"  continued  Amy  Warlock,  "because  I 
did  not  wish  you  and  my  brother  to  come  together.  I  did  not 
wish  you  to,  simply  out  of  hatred  for  you  both.  I  thought  that 
my  brother  killed  my  father — whom — whom — I  loved.  I  knew  that 
the  one  human  being  whom  Martin  had  ever  loved  beside  his  father 
was  yourself.  He  did  love  you,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  more  truly  than 
I  had  believed  it  in  his  power  to  love  any  one.  I  think  you  could 
have  made  him  happy — therefore  I  did  not  wish  you  to  meet 
again." 

There  was  a  pause.    Maggie  said  at  last: 

"  Were  there  no  other  letters  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Warlock.  "  One  this  summer.  For  more 
than  a  year  there  was  nothing;  then  this  summer,  a  little  one. 
I  destroyed  that  too." 

"  What  did  it  say  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  It  said  that  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  married  was 
dead.  He  said  that  if  you  didn't  answer  this  letter  he  would 
understand  that  you  would  not  want  to  hear  from  him  any  more. 
He  had  been  very  ill." 

"  Where  did  he  write  that?  " 

"  In  Paris." 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.    I  have  heard  from  him  no  more." 

Maggie  got  up  and  stood,  her  head  raised  as  though  listenimg 
for  something. 

u  You've  been  very  cruel,  Miss  Warlock,"  she  said. 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  381 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  said  Miss  Warlock.  "  But  you  cannot  judge 
until  you  know  with  what  reason  I  hated  my  brother.  It  is  a 
very  old  story.  However,  now  I  hate  no  one.  I  will  not  apologise 
for  what  I  have  done.  I  do  not  want  your  forgiveness.  I  had  to 
absolve  my  conscience." 

"  And  you  have  no  idea  where  he  is  now  ? " 

"  I  have  no  idea.    He  may  be  dead  for  all  I  know." 

Maggie  shivered.  "  If  you  have  any  more  inf ormatiom  you 
will  give  it  me?" 

"  I  will  give  it  you." 

"  This  is  my  address."    Maggie  gave  her  a  card. 

They  said  good-day,  looking  for  one  moment,  face  t«  face,  eye 
to  eye. 

Then  Maggie  turned  and  went.  Her  eyes  were  dim  so  that  she 
stumbled  on  the  stairs.  In  the  street  she  walked,  caring  nothing 
•£  her  direction,  seeing  only  Martin. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DEATH    OF    UNCLE    MATHEW 

GRACE,  during  the  days  that  Maggie  was  in  London,  regained 
something  of  her  old  tranquillity.  It  was  wonderful  to  her 
to  be  able  to  potter  about  the  house  once  more  mistress  of  all 
that  she  surveyed  and  protected  from  every  watching  eye.  She  had 
had,  from  her  very  earliest  years,  a  horror  of  being  what  she  called 
a  overlooked." 

She  had  a  habit  of  stopping,  when  she  had  climbed  halfway 
upstairs,  of  suddenly  jerking  her  head  round  to  see  whether  any 
one  were  looking  at  her.  You  would  have  sworn,  had  you  seen 
her,  that  she  was  deeply  engaged  upon  some  nefarious  and  under- 
hand plot;  yet  it  was  not  so — she  was  simply  going  to  dust  some 
of  her  hideous  china  treasures  in  her  bedroom. 

Always  after  breakfast  there  was  this  pleasant  ritual.  She 
would  plod  all  round  the  house,  duster  in  hand,  picking  things  up, 
giving  them  a  little  flick  and  putting  them  back  again,  patting 
treasures  that  she  especially  loved,  sighing  heavily  with  satisfac- 
tion at  the  pleasant  sight  of  all  her  possessions  tranquilly  in  their 
right  places.  As  she  looked  around  the  ugly  sitting-room  and  saw 
the  red  glazed  pots  with  the  ferns,  the  faded  football-groups,  the 
worsted  mats  and  the  china  shepherdesses,  a  rich  warm  feeling 
rose  in  her  heart  and  filled  her  whole  body.  It  was  like  a  fine  meal 
to  a  hungry  man :  every  morning  at  half -past  nine  she  was  hungry 
in  this  fashion,  and  every  morning  by  eleven  o'clock  she  was 
satisfied.  Her  thick  body  thus  promenaded  the  house;  she  was 
like  a  stolid  policeman  in  female  attire,  going  his  rounds  to  see 
that  all  was  well.  From  room  to  room  she  went,  pausing  to  pant 
for  breath  on  the  stairs,  stumbling  always  because  of  her  short 
sight  at  the  three  dark  little  steps  just  outside  Paul's  bedroom, 
always  sitting  down  on  her  bed  "  to  take  a  breath  "  and  to  get  a 
full  gaze  at  the  crucifix  of  bright  yellow  wood,  that  hung  just 
under  her  mother's  picture.  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  round  the  house 
she  went. 

It  was  incredible  how  deeply  Maggie  had  interfered  with  this 
ritual.  She  had  certainly  not  intended  to  do  so.  After  that  first 
effort  to  change  certain  things  in  the  house  she  had  retired  from 
the  battle,  had  completely  capitulated.    Nevertheless  she  had  inter- 

382 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW  383 

fered  with  all  Grace's  movements  and,  as  the  terror  of  her  grew, 
it  seemed  to  pervade  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  house,  so  that 
Grace  felt  that  she  could  go  nowhere  without  that  invasion.  Oh, 
how  she  resented  it,  and  how  afraid  she  was!  After  Paul  and 
Maggie  returned  from  that  summer  holiday  she  saw  that  Paul  too 
felt  Maggie's  strangeness.  To  Grace,  from  the  beginning  of  that 
autumn,  every  movement  and  gesture  of  Maggie's  was  strange. 
The  oddity  of  her  appearance,  her  ignorance  of  everything  that 
seemed  to  Grace  to  be  life,  her  strange,  half-mocking,  half-won- 
dering attitude  to  the  Church  and  its  affairs  ("  like  a  heathen  in 
Central  Africa"),  her  dislike  of  the  Maxses  and  the  Pynsents 
and  her  liking  for  the  Toms  and  Caroline  Purdie,  her  odd 
silences  and  still  odder  speeches,  all  these  things  increased 
the  atmosphere  that  separated  her  from  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

Then  came  the  day  when  Grace,  dusting  in  Maggie's  bedroom, 
discovered  the  bundle  of  letters.  She  read  them,  read  them  with 
shame  at  her  own  dishonesty  and  anger  at  Maggie  for  making  her 
dishonest.  To  her  virgin  ignorance  the  passion  in  them  spoke  of 
illicit  love  and  the  grossest  immorality.  Her  heart  burnt  with  a 
strange  mingling  of  envy,  jealousy,  loneliness,  shame,  and  eager- 
ness to  know  more.    .    .    . 

Then  came  Uncle  Mathew's  visit;  then  Caroline  Purdie's  dis- 
grace. The  count  was  fully  charged.  Maggie,  that  strange  girl 
found  in  the  heart  of  London's  darkness,  alone,  without  friends 
or  parents,  was  a  witch,  a  devilish,  potion-dealing  witch,  who 
might,  at  any  time,  fly  through  the  night-sky  on  a  broom-stick  as 
surely  as  any  mediaeval  old  hag.  These  visions  might  be  ex- 
aggerated for  many  human  beings,  not  so  for  Grace.  Having  no 
imagination  she  was  soaked  in  superstition.  She  clung  to  a  few 
simple  pictures,  and  was  exposed  to  every  terror  that  those  pictures 
could  supply. 

Maggie  now  haunted  her  day  and  night.  Everywhere  she  could 
feel  Maggie's  eyes  piercing  her.  A  thousand  times  an  hour  she 
looked  up  to  see  whether  Maggie  were  not  there  in  the  room  watch- 
ing her.  She  hated  her  now  with  terror  that  was  partly  fear  for 
her  own  safety,  partly  love  and  jealousy  for  Paul,  partly  outraged 
modesty  and  tradition,  partly  sheer  panic. 

She  had,  as  yet,  said  very  little  to  Paul.  She  waited  the  right 
moment.  Maggie's  absence  showed  her  how  deep  and  devastating 
this  fear  had  been.  She  saw  that  it  embraced  the  whole  life  of 
Paul  and  herself  in  Skeaton.  She  had  grown  fond  of  Skeaton; 
she  was  a  woman  who  would  inevitably  care  for  anything  when  she 


384  THE  CAPTIVES 

had  become  thoroughly  accustomed  to  its  ways  and  was  assured 
that  it  would  do  her  no  harm. 

She  liked  the  shops  and  the  woods,  the  sand  and  the  sea.  Above 
all,  she  adored  the  Church.  During  a  large  part  of  every  day  she 
was  there,  pottering  about,  talking  to  the  caretaker,  poking  her 
nose  into  the  hymn-books  to  see  whether  the  choir-boys  had  drawn 
pictures  in  them,  rubbing  the  brasses,  making  tidy  the  vestry. 
The  house  too  she  loved,  and  the  garden  and  the  bottles  on  the 
wall.  She  might  have  known  that  she  was  not  popular  in  the 
place,  she  cannot  have  failed  to  realise  that  she  had  no  woman 
friend  and  that  she  was  seldom  invited  to  dinner.  This  did  not 
matter  to  her.  Her  affections — and  they  were  very  real  and 
genuine — were  all  for  her  brother.  Had  she  Paul  she  wanted  no 
one  else.    That  was  enough. 

And  now  it  might  be  that  they  would  have  to  leave  the  place. 
Already  the  talk  about  Maggie  was  intolerable.  Grace  heard  it 
on  every  side.  After  Mathew  Cardinal's  visit  the  talk  rose  to  a 
shriek.  Grace  knew  that  those  sudden  silences  on  her  entrance 
into  the  room  meant  lively  and  excited  discussion.  "  How  ter- 
rible for  the  poor  rector !  "  "  Such  an  odd  girl — taken  out  of  the 
slums."  "  Yes,  quite  drunk.  He  knocked  Mrs.  Maxse  down." 
"  Oh  I  assure  you  that  she  went  to  see  Caroline  Purdie  the  very 
day  after.     She  did  indeed.    ..." 

Yes.  Grace  knew  all  about  it.  Unless  things  changed  Paul 
would  have  to  go.    His  life  was  ruined  by  this  girl. 

Nevertheless  for  a  whole  happy  week  the  world  seemed  to  sink 
back  into  its  old  accustomed  apathy.  The  very  house  seemed  to 
take  on  its  old  atmosphere.  Paul  came  out  of  his  study  and  went 
about  paying  calls.  That  hour,  from  six  to  seven,  when  he  was  at 
home  to  his  parishioners  seemed  once  again  to  be  crowded  with 
anxious  old  women  and  men  out  of  work  and  girls  in  trouble.  He 
took  Grace  with  him  on  his  rounds.  Every  one  was  very  friendly. 
Grace  was  able  to  reassume  some  of  her  old  importance. 

Her  old  flow  of  conversation — checked  recently  by  the  sense  of 
Maggie's  strangeness — returned  to  her.  In  the  morning  she  would 
stand  by  her  brother's  study-table,  duster  in  hand,  and  pour  out 
her  heart. 

"  You  know,  Paul,  it's  all  very  well,  you  may  say  what  you  like, 
but  if  Mrs.  Maxse  thinks  she's  going  to  have  the  whole  of  that 
second  pew  she's  mistaken.  It's  only  for  a  week  or  two  that  she's 
got  the  Broadbents  staying  with  her,  and  I  know  what  she's  after. 
Just  fancy!  What  she  wants  is  to  put  the  Broadbents  in  that 
second  seat  the  two  Sundays  they're  here  and  then  stick  to  it  after 


DEATH  OF  UNCLE  MATHEW  385 

they're  gone.  Just  fancy  what  Miss  Beats  and  Miss  Hopwood  will 
feel  about  it!  What  I  mean  is  that  they've  had  that  seat  for 
nearly  eight  years  and  now  to  be  turned  out!  But  I  assure  you, 
Paul,  from  what  Linda  Maxse  said  to  me  yesterday  I  believe 
she  intends  that,  I  do  indeed.  She  thinks  Miss  Beats  and  Miss 
Hopwood  will  get  used  to  sitting  somewhere  else  after  two  Sun- 
days. '  I'm  sure  they  won't  mind — poor  old  things,'  she  said  only 
yesterday.  'Poor  old  things.'  Just  fancy!  Why,  Mary  Beats 
is  very  little  older  than  I.  You'll  have  to  put  your  foot  down  about 
it,  you  will,  indeed,  Paul.  Yes,  you  will.  Give  Linda  Maxse  an 
inch  and  she  takes  a  mile,  I  always  said — and  this  is  just  the  kind 
of  thing.    ..." 

So  happily  Grace  ran  on  and  Paul  looked  up  from  his  desk  at 
her,  digging  his  fingers  into  his  white  hair,  smiling  at  her  in  just 
the  old  confidential  way  that  he  used  to  have  before  Maggie 
came. 

She  revived,  too,  her  old  habit  of  talking  to  herself.  This  had 
always  been  an  immense  relief  to  her — it  had  helped  her  to  feel 
reassurance.  Lately  she  had  felt  that  Maggie  was  overhearing  her 
and  was  laughing  at  her;  this  had  checked  her  and  made  her 
suspicious.  Now  as  she  began  to  mount  the  stairs  she  would 
murmur  to  herself :  "  It  might  be  better  to  tell  Jenny  to  go  to 
Bartletts.  After  all,  it's  quicker  that  way,  and  she'll  be  able  to 
tell  the  boy  to  bring  the  things  back.  She  needn't  wait.  All  the 
same  she's  stupid,  she'll  make  a  muddle  of  it  as  likely  as  not. 
And  Womball's  boy  is  livelier  than  Bartletts'.  That's  something 
after  all.  But  if  she  goes  out  at  two-thirty  she'll  never  be  back  by 
four — unless  she  went  by  Smith's  lane  of  course — she  might  do 
that.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  these  stairs  are  a  trial  .  .  .  yes,  she 
might  do  that,  and  then  she'd  only  be  an  hour  altogether.  I'll 
suggest  that.    ..." 

Her  murmur  was  a  cheerful  monotonous  sound  accompanying 
her  as  she  went.  She  would  stop  and  rub  the  side  of  her  nose  with 
her  thumb,  considering.  In  the  house,  when  there  was  no  fear  of 
callers,  she  wore  large  loose  slippers  that  tap-tapped  as  she  went. 
In  the  evenings  she  sat  in  Paul's  study  all  amongst  the  Cornhills, 
The  Temple  Bars,  and  The  Bible  Concordances.  They  were  very 
cosy  and  happy,  and  she  talked  incessantly.  For  some  reason  she 
did  not  dare  to  ask  him  whether  he  were  not  happier  now  that 
Maggie  was  away.  She  did  not  dare.  There  wa9  not  the  com- 
plete confidence  that  there  had  been.  Paul  was  strange  a  little, 
bewitched  by  Maggie's  strangeness.  .  .  .  There  was  something 
there  that  Grace  did  not  understand.    So  she  said  nothing,  but  she 


386  THE  CAPTIVES 

tried  to  convey  to  him,  in  the  peculiar  warmth  of  her  good-night 
kiss,  what  she  felt. 

Then  Maggie  returned.  She  came  back  in  her  black  clothes  and 
with  her  pale  face.  Her  aunt  had  died.  She  was  more  alone  even 
than  before.  She  was  very  quiet,  and  agreed  to  everything  that 
Grace  said.  Nevertheless,  although  she  agreed,  she  was  more 
antagonistic  than  she  had  been.  She  had  now  something  that 
intensely  preoccupied  her.  Grace  could  see  that  she  was  always 
thinking  about  something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Skeaton 
or  Paul  or  the  house.  She  was  more  absent-minded  than  ever, 
forgot  everything,  liked  best  to  sit  in  her  bedroom  all  alone. 

a  Oh,  she's  mad !  "  said  Grace.  "  She's  really  mad !  Just  fancy 
if  she  should  go  right  off  her  head !  "  Grace  was  now  so  desperately 
frightened  that  she  lay  awake  at  night,  sweating,  listening  to  every 
sound.  ''  If  she  should  come  and  murder  me  one  night,"  she 
thought.  Another  thought  she  had  was :  "  It's  just  as  though  she 
sees  some  one  all  the  time  who  isn't  there." 

Then  came  13th  March,  that  dreadful  day  that  would  be  never 
forgotten  by  Grace  so  long  as  she  lived.  During  the  whole  of  the 
past  week  Skeaton  had  been  delivered  up  to  a  tempest  of  wind  and 
rain.  The  High  Street,  emptied  of  human  beings,  had  glittered 
and  swayed  under  the  sweeping  storm.  The  Skeaton  sea,  pos- 
sessing suddenly  a  life  of  its  own,  had  stormed  upon  the  Skeaton 
promenade,  and  worried  and  lashed  and  soaked  that  hideous  struc- 
ture to  within  an  inch  of  its  unnatural  life.  Behind  the  town 
the  woods  had  swayed  and  creaked,  funeral  black  against  the  grey 
thick  sky.  Across  the  folds  the  rain  fell  in  slanting  sheets  with 
the  sibilant  hiss  of  relentless  power  and  resolve. 

After  luncheon,  on  this  day  the  13th,  Maggie  disappeared  into 
the  upper  part  of  the  house  and  Grace  settled  down  on  the  draw- 
ing-room sofa  to  a  nice  little  nap.  She  fell  asleep  to  the  comfort- 
ing patter  of  rain  upon  the  windows  and  the  howling  of  the  storm 
down  the  chimney.    She  dreamt,  as  she  often  did,  about  food. 

She  was  awakened,  with  a  sudden  start,  by  a  sense  of  appre- 
hension. This  happened  to  her  now  so  often  that  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  it,  but  she  jumped  up,  with  beating  heart,  from 
the  sofa,  crying  out :  "  What's  happened  ?     What's  the  matter  %  " 

She  realised  that  the  room  had  grown  darker  since  she  fell 
asleep,  and  although  it  was  early  still  there  was  a  sort  of  grey 
twilight  that  stood  out  against  a  deeper  dusk  in  the  garden 
beyond. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  again,  and  then  saw  that  Jenny,  the 
maid,  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 


DEATH  OF  UNCLE  MATHEW  387 

"  Well,  Jenny  ? "  she  asked,  trying  to  recover  some  of  her  dig- 
nity. 

"  It's  a  man,  mum,"  said  the  little  girl.  (Grace  had  got  her 
cheap  from  an  orphanage.)  "  A  gentleman,  mum.  He's  asking  for 
Mrs.  Trenchard.    'E  give  me  'is  card.    Oh,  mum,  'e  is  wet  too !  " 

She  had  scarcely  finished,  and  Grace  had  only  taken  the  card, 
when  Mathew  Cardinal  came  forward  out  of  the  hall.  He  was  a 
dim  and  mysterious  figure  in  that  half-light,  but  Grace  could  see 
that  he  was  more  battered  and  shabby  than  on  his  last  visit.  His 
coat  collar  was  turned  up.  She  could  only  very  vaguely  see  his 
face,  but  it  seemed  to  her  strangely  white  when  before  it  had  been 
so  grossly  red. 

She  was  struck  by  his  immobility.  Partly  perhaps  because  she 
had  been  roused  from  sleep  and  was  yet  neither  clear  nor  resolved, 
he  seemed  to  her  some  nightmare  figure.  This  was  the  man  who 
was  responsible  for  all  the  trouble  and  scandal,  this  was  the  man 
who  threatened  to  drive  Paul  and  herself  from  her  home,  this  was 
the  blackguard  who  had  not  known  how  to  behave  in  decent  society. 
But  behind  that  was  the  terror  of  the  mystery  that  enveloped 
Maggie — the  girl's  uncle,  the  man  who  had  shared  in  her  strange 
earlier  life,  and  made  her  what  she  now  was.  As  he  stood  there, 
motionless,  silent,  the  water  dripping  from  his  clothes,  Grace  was 
as  frightened  as  though  he  had  already  offered  her  personal  violence 
or  held  a  pistol  to  her  head. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  she  asked  hoarsely,  stepping  back  to  the 
sofa.     Jenny  had  left  the  room. 

"  I  want  to  see  my  niece,"  he  answered,  still  without  moving. 
She  recognised  then,  strangely,  in  his  voice  a  terror  akin  to  her 
own.  He  also  was  afraid  of  something.  Of  what?  It  was  not 
that  his  voice  shook  or  that  his  tongue  faltered.  But  he  was 
terrified.  .  .  .  She  could  feel  his  heart  thumping  behind  the 
words. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  You  can't  see  her.  She's  upstairs  rest- 
ing." 

She  did  not  know  whence  the  resolution  had  come  that  he  was 
not,  in  any  case,  to  see  Maggie;  she  did  not  know  what  catas- 
trophe she  anticipated  from  their  meeting.  She  was  simply  re- 
solved, as  though  acting  under  the  blind  orders  of  some  other 
power,  that  Maggie  should  not  see  him  and  that  he  should  leave  the 
house  at  once. 

"  I  must  see  her,"  he  said,  and  the  desperate  urgency  in  his 
voice  would  have  touched  any  one  less  terrified  than  Grace.  "  I 
must." 


388  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  answered.  The  fear  in  his  voice  seemed  now 
to  give  her  superiority  over  him.     "  It's  impossible." 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said.  "  If  she's  here  it  can't  be  impossible.  She'd 
want  to  see  me.  We  have  things  ...  I  must.  .  .  .  You 
don't  understand,  Miss  Trenchard." 

"  I  only  know,"  said  Grace,  "  that  after  what  occurred  on  your 
last  visit  here,  Mr.  Cardinal,  Maggie  said  that  she  would  never  see 
you  again." 

"  That's  a  lie !  "  he  said. 

She  made  no  answer.    Then  at  last  he  said  pitifully : 

"She  didn't  really  say  that,  did  she?" 

a  Yes.  I'm  sorry.  But  you  can  understand  after  what  oc- 
curred  " 

He  came  suddenly  forward,  the  water  trickling  from  him  on  to 
the  carpet. 

"  You   swear   that's   true  ?  " 

She  could  see  now  his  face  and  realised  that  he  was,  indeed, 
desperate — breathless  as  though  he  had  been  running  from  some 
one. 

"  Yes,  that's  true,"  she  answered. 

"  Maggie  said  that." 

"  Those  were  Maggie's  words." 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  done.  ..."  He  turned  away  from  her  as 
though  her  announcement  had  settled  something  about  which  he 
had  been  in  doubt.  "  It  isn't  like  Maggie.  .  .  .  But  still  she 
hasn't  written.  She  saw  I  was  hard  up  last  time.  All  I  deserve. 
.  .  .  All  I  deserve."  He  turned  round  to  Grace  again.  "  I 
can't  quite  believe  it,  Miss  Trenchard.  It  doesn't  sound  like  Mag- 
gie, but  perhaps  you've  influenced  her.  .  .  .  That's  likely.  If 
she  should  change  her  mind  I'm  at  the  '  Sea  Dog.'  Not  much  of  a 
place.  Quiet  though.  Yes,  well.  You  might  tell  her  not  to 
bother.  I'm  finished,  you  see,  Miss  Trenchard.  Yes,  down.  You'll 
be  glad  to  hear  it,  I've  no  doubt.  Well,  I  mustn't  stay  talking. 
I  wish  Maggie  were  happier  though.     She  isn't  happy,  is  she  ? " 

The  question  was  so  abrupt  that  Grace  was  startled. 

"  I  should  hope  so — Mr.  Cardinal,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  she  isn't.  I  know.  Always  this  religion  she  gets  into. 
If  it  isn't  one  sort  it's  another.  But  she's  a  good  girl.  Don't  you 
forget  that.    Well,  I  must  be  going.     Good  day.     Good  day." 

He  was  actually  gone,  leaving  a  little  pool  of  water  on  the  carpet 
behind  him.  Grace  sat  down  on  the  sofa  again.  What  a  horrible 
man !  What  a  horrible  man !  But  she  had  been  wrong  to  say  that 
about  Maggie.    Yes,  she  had.    But  he  had  taken  her  by  surprise. 


DEATH  OF  UNCLE  MATHEW  389. 

Oh  dear!  How  her  heart  was  beating!  And  how  strange  he  had 
looked.  She  could  scarcely  breathe.  She  sat  there  lost  in  stupefied 
wonder.  At  last  tea  came  in,  and  with  it  Paul  and  Maggie.  Grace 
felt  ashamed  and  frightened.  Why  was  Maggie  always  making 
her  do  things  of  which  she  was  ashamed?  It  was  as  though  the 
girl  had  power  over  her  .  .  .  absurd,  of  course.  Nevertheless, 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea  she  was  haunted  by  that  man's  eyes.  Yes, 
he  had  undoubtedly  been  very  unhappy.    Yes,  in  great  trouble. 

Maggie  sat  quietly  there.  Paul  was  preoccupied  with  a  letter 
that  must,  he  had  decided,  be  written  to  The  Church  Times.  It 
was  a  letter  about  Churchwardens  and  their  growing  independence. 
He  finished  his  tea  hurriedly,  but  before  he  left  the  room,  looking 
at  Maggie  rather  wistfully,  suddenly  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 
She  glanced  up  at  him,  smiling. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Grace  ? "  she  asked. 

Then,  as  it  were  without  her  own  desire,  Grace  was  compelled 

to  speak.    "  There's  something  I  ought  to  tell  you "  she  began 

awkwardly.  Then  she  stopped.  Maggie  was  troubled.  She  knew 
that  when  Grace  was  uncomfortable  every  one  else  was  uncom- 
fortable. 

a  What  have  I  done  now  ? "  she  said  rather  sharply. 

"  It's  nothing  that  you've  done,"  answered  Grace  also  sharply. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Maggie,  why  you  should  always  think  that 
I'm  scolding  you.  No,  I  don't  indeed.  It's  nothing  that  you've 
done.     Your  uncle  came  to  see  you  this  afternoon." 

*  Uncle  Mathew?  "  Maggie  jumped  up  from  her  chair.  "  Came 
here?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  wanted  to  see  me?    Oh,  Grace,  why  didn't  you  tell  me? " 

"  I  have  told  you.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about, 
Maggie.  Keally,  you  needn't  look  like  that — as  though  I  were 
always  doing  something  wrong.    I  only  did  it  for  your  sake." 

"  For  my  sake  ?  But  why  ?  I  wanted  to  see  him.  I  was  trying 
to  see  him  in  London.    Oh,  Grace,  what  did  he  say?" 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  Well,  fancy !  As  though  I  could  remem- 
ber. He  said  he'd  come  to  see  you,  and  when  I  said  he  couldn't, 
he  went  away  again." 

"Said  he  couldn't?     But  why  couldn't  he?" 

"  Really,  Maggie,  your  tone  is  extraordinary.  Fancy  what  Paul 
would  say  if  he  heard  you.  He  wouldn't  like  it,  I'm  sure.  I  said 
that  after  the  way  he'd  behaved  last  time  he  came  here  you  didn't 
want  to  see  him  again." 

"  You  said  that  ?    Oh,  Grace !    How  did  you  dare !  " 


390  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Now,  Maggie,  don't  you  look  like  that.  I've  done  nothing, 
I'm  sure." 

"  Did  you  say  that  I'd  said  that  I  didn't  want  to  see  him  again?  " 

Grace  shrank  back  behind  the  tea-things. 

"  Yes,  I  did.    .    .    .    Maggie,  you  frighten  me." 

"  I  hope  I  do.  ...  You're  wicked,  you're  wicked.  Yes,  you 
are.    Where  is  he  now  ? " 

u  He's  at  the  '  Sea  Dog.'  That  dirty  public  house  on  the  sea- 
front — near  Tunstalls Where  are  you  going?" 

"  I'm  going  to  him  of  course."  Maggie  turned  and  looked  at 
Grace.  Grace  was  fascinated  as  a  rabbit  is  by  a  snake.  The  two 
women  stared  at  one  another. 

"  How  strange  you  are,  Grace,"  Maggie  said.  "  You  seem  to  like 
to  be  cruel ! "  Then  she  went  out.  When  the  door  was  closed 
Grace  found  "  that  she  was  all  in  a  perspiration."  Her  hand 
trembled  so  that  when  she  tried  to  pour  herself  another  cup  of 
tea — just  to  fortify  herself — she  poured  it  into  the  saucer.  And 
the  tea  was  cold — no  use  now. 

When  she  rose  at  last  to  go  in  and  seek  consolation  from  Paul 
her  knees  were  trembling  so  that  she  staggered  across  the  floor. 
This  couldn't  go  on.  No,  it  could  not.  To  be  frightened  in  one's 
own  house!  Absurd.  .  .  .  Really  the  girl  had  looked  terrible. 
.  .  .  Murder.  .  .  .  That's  what  it  had  looked  like.  Some- 
thing must  be  done. 

Murmuring  aloud  to  herself  again  and  again  "  Something  must 
be  done"  as  she  crossed  the  hall,  she  walked  slowly,  her  hand  to 
her  heart,  ponderously,  as  though  she  were  walking  in  the  dark. 
Then,  as  soon  as  she  had  opened  the  study  door  she  began,  before 
she  could  see  her  brother :  "  Oh,  Paul,  I'm  so  frightened.  It's 
Maggie.     She's  very  angry.     Fancy  what  she  said." 

Maggie  meanwhile  had  gone  straight  up  to  her  bedroom  and 
found  her  black  hat  and  her  waterproof.  Her  one  thought  now  was 
lest  he  should  have  caught  the  five  o'clock  train  and  gone  back  to 
London.  Oh!  how  hurt  he  would  be  with  her,  how  terribly  hurt! 
The  thought  of  the  pain  and  loneliness  that  he  would  feel  dis- 
tressed her  so  bitterly  that  she  could  scarcely  put  on  her  hat,  she 
was  so  eager  to  run  and  find  him.  She  felt,  at  the  thought  of  his 
fruitless  journey  through  the  rain,  the  tenderest  affection  for  him, 
maternal  and  loving,  so  that  she  wanted  to  have  him  with  her  at 
once  and  to  see  him  in  warm  clothes  beside  the  fire,  drinking 
whisky  if  he  liked,  and  she  would  give  him  all  the  money  she  pos- 
sessed. 

She  had  still   touched   very  little   of   her   own   three   hundred 


DEATH  OF  UNCLE  MATHEW  391 

pounds.  He  should  have  as  much  of  that  as  he  liked.  The  death 
of  Aunt  Anne  had  shown  her  how  few  people  in  the  world  there 
were  for  her  to  love.  After  all,  the  aunts  and  Uncle  Mathew  had 
needed  her  as  no  one  else  had  done.  She  made  little  plans;  she 
would,  perhaps,  go  back  with  him  to  London  for  a  little  time. 
There  was,  after  all,  no  reason  why  she  should  remain  in  this  hor- 
rible place  for  ever.  And  Paul  now  seemed  not  to  care  whether 
she  went  or  stayed. 

She  ran  out  into  the  wind  and  the  rain.  She  was  surprised  by 
the  force  and  fury  of  it.  It  would  take  time  and  strength  to  battle 
down  the  High  Street.  Poor  Uncle  Mathew!  To  walk  all  the 
way  in  the  rain  and  then  to  be  told  that  she  would  not  see  him! 
She  could  imagine  him  turning  away  down  the  drive,  bitterly  dis- 
appointed.   .    .   . 

Probably  he  had  come  to  borrow  money,  and  she  had  promised 
that  she  would  not  fail  him.  When  she  reached  the  High  Street 
she  was  soaked.  She  felt  the  water  dripping  down  her  neck  and 
in  her  boots.  At  the  corner  of  the  High  Street  by  the  bookseller's 
she  was  forced  to  pause,  so  fiercely  did  the  wind  beat  up  from  the 
Otterson  Road,  that  runs  openly  to  the  sea.  Maggie  had  not  even 
in  Glebeshire  known  so  furious  a  day  and  hour  when  the  winds 
tossed  and  raged  but  never  broke  into  real  storm.  It  was  the 
more  surprising.  She  had  to  pause  for  a  moment  to  remember 
where  TurnstalFs  the  butcher  was,  then,  suddenly  recalling  it,  she 
turned  off  the  High  Street  and  found  her  way  to  the  mean  streets 
that  ran  behind  the  Promenade.  Still  she  met  no  one.  It  might 
have  been  a  town  abandoned  by  all  human  life  and  given  over  to 
the  wind  and  rain  and  the  approaching  absorption  of  the  sea.  It 
was  now  dark  and  the  lamp  at  the  end  of  the  street  blew  gustily 
and  with  an  uncertain  flare. 

Maggie  found  TurnstalFs,  its  shop  lit  and  Mr.  Turnstall  himself, 
stout  and  red-faced,  behind  his  bloody  counter.  She  went  in  and 
asked  him  where  "  The  Sea  Dog  "  might  be.  He  explained  to  her 
that  it  was  close  at  hand,  on  the  right,  looking  over  the  Promenade. 
She  found  it  at  last  because  it  had  an  old-fashioned  creaking 
wooden  sign  with  a  blue  sailor  painted  on  it.  Timidly  she  stepped 
into  the  dark  uneven  passage.  To  the  right  of  her  she  could  see 
a  deserted  room  with  wooden  trestles  and  a  table.  The  bar  must 
be  near  because  she  could  hear  voices  and  the  clinking  of  glasses, 
but,  in  spite  of  those  sounds  the  house  seemed  very  dead.  Through 
the  walls  and  rooms  she  could  hear  the  pounding  beat  of  the  sea. 
She  walked  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and  there  found  an  old  wrin- 
kled man  in  riding  breeches  and  a  brightly-coloured  check  shirt. 


392  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Cardinal,  is  staying  ? " 
she  asked. 

He  was  obviously  very  deaf ;  she  had  to  shout.  She  repeated  her 
question,  adding.    "  He  came  from  London  to-day." 

A  stout  middle-aged  woman  appeared.  "  What  is  it? "  she  asked. 
"  The  old  man's  stone  deaf.    He  can't  hear  at  all." 

u  I  was  wondering,"  said  Maggie,  "  whether  you  could  tell  me 
where  I  could  find  a  Mr.  Cardinal.  He  came  down  from  London 
to-day  and  is  staying  here." 

"Cardinal  .  .  .  Cardinal?"  The  woman  thought,  scratching 
her  head.     "Was  it  Caldwell  you  meant?" 

"  No,"  said  Maggie.    "  Cardinal." 

"  I'll  go  and  see."  The  woman  disappeared,  whilst  the  old  man 
brushed  past  Maggie  as  though  she  were  a  piece  of  furniture;  he 
departed  on  some  secret  purpose  of  his  own. 

"  What  a  horrible  place ! "  thought  Maggie.  "  Uncle  must  be 
in  a  bad  way  if  he  comes  here.  I  never  should  sleep  for  the  noise 
of  the  sea." 

The  woman  returned.  "Yes.  'E's  here.  No.  5.  Come  this 
afternoon.    Up  the  stairs  and  second  door  on  the  right." 

The  stairs  to  which  she  pointed  offered  a  gulf  of  darkness.  The 
woman  was  gone.  The  noises  from  the  bar  had  ceased.  The  only 
sound  in  the  place  was  the  thundering  of  the  sea,  roaring,  as  it 
seemed,  at  the  very  foot  of  the  house. 

Maggie  climbed  the  stairs.  Half-way  up  she  was  compelled  to 
pause.  The  darkness  blinded  her;  she  had  lost  the  reflection  from 
the  lamp  below  and,  above  her,  there  was  no  light  at  all.  She  ad- 
vanced slowly,  step  by  step,  feeling  her  way  with  a  hand  on  the 
rickety  bannisters.  At  the  top  of  the  stair  there  was  a  gleam  of 
light  and,  turning  to  the  right,  she  knocked  on  the  second  door. 
There  was  no  answer  and  she  knocked  again.  Listening,  the  noise 
of  the  sea  was  now  so  violent  that  she  fancied  that  she  might  not 
have  heard  the  answer  so  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and 
pushed  it  open.  She  was  met  then  by  a  gale  of  wind,  a  rush  of 
the  sea  that  seemed  as  imminent  as  though  she  were  on  the  shore 
itself  and  a  dim  grey  light  that  revealed  nothing  in  the  room  to 
her  but  only  shapes  and  shadows. 

She  knew  at  once  that  the  windows  must  be  wide  open;  she 
could  hear  some  papers  rustling  and  something  on  the  wall  tapped 
monotonously. 

"  Uncle  Mathew ! "  she  whispered,  and  then  she  called  more 
loudly. 

"  Uncle  Mathew !  Uncle  Mathew !  " 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW  393 

There  was  no  answer  and  suddenly  a  strange,  quite  unreasoning 
terror  caught  her  by  the  throat.  It  was  all  that  she  could  do 
not  to  cry  out  and  run  down  to  the  gas-lit  passage.  She  held 
herself  there  by  sheer  force;  the  smell  of  the  sea  was  now  very 
strong;  there  was  a  tang  of  rotten  seaweed  in  it. 

As  she  remained  there  she  could  see  more  clearly,  but  it  seemed 
that  the  room  was  full  of  some  dim  obscuring  mist.  She  moved 
forward  into  the  room,  knocked  her  knee  against  a  table,  and  then 
as  the  panic  gained  upon  her  called  more  loudly,  "  Uncle  .  .  . 
Uncle.    Are  you  in?    Where  are  you?    It's  I,  Maggie." 

"  Oh  well  ...  of  course  he  isn't  here,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  He's  downstairs."  And  yet,  strangely,  something  seemed  to  per- 
suade her  that  he  was  there;  it  was  as  though  he  were  maliciously 
hiding  from  her  to  tease  her. 

Feeling  her  way  cautiously,  her  hands  before  her  face,  she 
moved  forward  to  close  the  windows,  thinking  that  she  must  shut 
out  that  abominable  sound  of  the  sea  and  the  stale  stink  of  the 
seaweed.  She  was  suddenly  caught  by  a  sweep  of  rain  that  wetted 
her  hair  and  face  and  neck.  She  started  back  and  touched  a 
piece  of  damp  cloth'.  She  turned,  and  there,  very  close  to  her  but 
above  her  and  staring  over  her  head,  was  Uncle  Mathew's  face.  It 
was  so  close  to  her  that  she  could  have  touched  it  by  putting  up 
her  hand.  It  was  white-grey  and  she  would  not  have  seen  it  at 
all  had  she  not  been  very  near  to  it. 

She  realised  nothing,  but  she  felt  that  her  knees  were  trembling 
and  that  she  would  fall  if  she  did  not  steady  herself.  She  put  out 
her  hand  and  clutched  damp  heavy  thick  cloth,  cloth  that  en- 
wrapped as  it  seemed  some  weighty  substance  like  stone  or  brick. 

She  passed  her  hand  upwards  and  suddenly  the  damp  cloth  gave 
way  beneath  her  fingers,  sinking  inwards  against  something  soft 
and  flabby.  She  sprang  away.  She  stood  for  one  shuddering 
moment,  then  she  screamed  again  and  again,  shrieking  and  run- 
ning, as  it  were  for  her  life,  out  of  the  room,  down  the  passage. 

She  could  not  find  the  staircase.  Oh!  she  could  not  find  the 
staircase!  She  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  damp  wall,  crying: 
"Oh  help!    Help!     Quickly!" 

There  were  steps  and  voices,  then  the  woman  whom  she  had  seen 
before  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  stair  holding  a  lamp. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  raising  the  light  high.  Maggie  did 
not  answer,  only  leaning  there  and  staring  down. 

u  You'd  better  come,  Bill,"  the  woman  said.  "  There's  something 
wrong  up  'ere." 

The  woman  came  up  the  stairs  followed  by  two  men ;  they  moved 


394  THE  CAPTIVES 

cautiously  as  though  they  expected  to  find  something  terrible 
round  the  next  corner. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  the  woman  again  when  she  came  up  to 
Maggie.  But  Maggie  made  no  answer.  They  pushed  past  her 
and  went  into  the  room.  Maggie  followed  them.  She  saw  the 
room  obscured  by  mist;  she  heard  some  whispering  and  fumbling, 
then  a  match  was  struck;  there  was  a  bead-like  flare  followed 
suddenly  by  the  flaming  of  a  candle.  In  the  quick  light  the  room 
was  bright.  Maggie  saw  her  uncle  hanging  from  some  projection 
in  the  rough  ceiling.  A  chair  was  overturned  at  his  feet.  His 
body  was  like  a  bag  of  old  clothes,  his  big  boots  turning  inwards 
towards  one  another.  His  face  was  a  dull  grey  and  seemed  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  his  body  by  the  thick  blue  muffler  that  en- 
circled his  neck.  He  was  grinning  at  her;  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
protruded  at  her  between  his  teeth.  She  noticed  his  hands  that 
hung  heavily  like  dead  fish. 

After  that  she  knew  no  more  save  that  the  sea  seemed  to  rush 
in  a  great  flood,  with  a  sudden  vindictive  roar,  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOUL  OF  PAUL 

NOTHING  so  horrible  had  ever  happened  to  Paul  before, 
nothing.  .   .   . 

He  felt  as  though  he  had  committed  a  murder;  it  was  as  though 
he  expected  arrest  and  started  at  every  knock  on  the  door.  Noth- 
ing so  horrible.  .   .   . 

It  was,  of  course,  in  all  the  Skeaton  papers.  At  the  inquest  it 
appeared  that  Mathew  Cardinal  had  imitated  the  signature  of  a 
prosperous  City  friend;  had  he  not  chosen  his  own  way  out  he 
would  have  discovered  the  arduous  delights  of  hard  labour.  But 
he  had  chosen  suicide  and  not  "  while  of  unsound  mind."  Yes,  the 
uncle  of  the  Rector's  wife.  .  .  .  Yes,  The  Rectors  Wife's  Uncle. 
.   .   .  Yes,  The  Rector's  Wife's  Uncle! 

She  discovered  him,  bumped  right  into  him  in  the  dark.  What 
a  queer  story — like  a  novel.  Oh,  but  she  had  always  been  queer — 
Trenchard  had  picked  her  up  somewhere  in  a  London  slum;  well, 
perhaps  not  a  slum  exactly  but  something  very  like  it.  Why  did 
he  marry  her?  Perhaps  he  had  to.  Who  knows?  These  clergy- 
men are  sly  dogs.    Always  the  worst  if  the  truth  were  known.  .  .  . 

So  it  went  on.  For  nine  whole  days  (and  nights)  it  was  the 
only  topic  in  Skeaton.  Paul  caught  the  fringe  of  it.  He  had  never 
known  very  much  about  his  fellow-beings.  He  had  always  taken 
the  things  that  they  said  to  him  as  the  true  things,  when  they 
smiled  he  had  thought  that  they  meant  their  smiles.  And  why 
not?  ...  since  he  always  meant  his.  He  had  always  been  too 
lazy  to  dislike  people,  and  his  digestion  had  been  too  good  and  his 
ambition  too  slender  to  urge  him  towards  spite  and  malice.  He 
had  believed  that  he  was  on  excellent  terms  with  all  the  world. 

Now  that  was  changed.  He  was  watched,  he  knew,  with  curious, 
inquisitive,  critical  glances.  Through  no  fault  of  his  own  he  was 
soiled  and  smirched.  That  hearty  confident  laugh  of  his  must 
be  checked.  He  was  afraid.  Yes,  he  was  afraid.  He  sat  in  his 
study  and  trembled  at  the  thought  of  meeting  his  congregation. 
He  had  done  nothing  and  yet  his  reputation  was  no  longer  clean. 
But  he  was  afraid,  also,  of  something  else.  He  saw,  desperately 
against  his  will,  the  central  picture.  He  saw  the  body  hanging  in 
the  dark  room,  Maggie  tumbling  against  it,  the  cries,  the  lights, 

395 


396  THE  CAPTIVES 

the  crowd.  .  .  .  He  saw  it  all,  hour  after  hour.  He  was  not  an 
imaginative  man,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  actually  been 
present  at  this  scene.  He  had  to  attend  the  inquest.  That  had 
been  horrible.  With  all  eyes  upon  him  he  stood  up  and  answered 
their  detestable  questions.  He  had  trembled  before  those  eyes. 
Suddenly  the  self-confidence  of  all  his  life  had  left  him.  He  had 
stammered  in  his  replies,  his  hands  had  trembled  and  he  had  been 
forced  to  press  them  close  to  his  sides.  He  had  given  his  answers 
as  though  he  were  a  guilty  man. 

He  came  then  slowly,  in  the  silence  of  his  study,  to  the  con- 
sideration of  Grace  and  Maggie.  This  would  kill  Grace.  She  had 
altered,  in  a  few  days,  amazingly;  she  would  meet  nobody,  but 
shut  herself  into  her  bedroom.  She  would  not  see  the  servants. 
She  looked  at  Paul  as  though  she,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  blamed 
him.  Paul  loved  Grace.  He  had  not  known  before  how  much. 
They  had  been  together  all  their  lives  and  he  had  taken  her  pro- 
tection and  care  of  him  too  much  for  granted.  How  good  she  had 
been  to  him  and  for  how  many  years!  When  they  were  happy  it 
seemed  natural  that  she  should  look  after  him,  but  now,  in  the 
middle  of  this  scandal  he  saw  that  it  should  have  been  he  who 
looked  after  her.  He  had  not  looked  after  her.  Of  course,  now 
they  would  have  to  leave  Skeaton  and  he  knew  what  that  departure 
would  mean  to  Grace.  She  was  suspicious  of  new  places  and  new 
people.  Strange  to  think  now  that  almost  the  only  person  of  whom 
she  had  not  been  suspicious  was  Maggie. 

Maggie!  His  mind  slowly  wheeled  round  to  her.  He  rose  from 
his  chair  and  began  clumsily  to  parade  the  room.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  study  as  though  with  closed  eyes,  his  large  body 
bumping  against  corners  of  tables  and  chairs.  Maggie!  He 
looked  back,  as  of  late  he  had  often  done,  to  those  days  in  his 
cousin's  house  in  London.  What  had  happened  to  the  Maggie 
whom  he  had  known  there? 

He  saw  her  again,  so  quiet,  so  ready  to  listen  and  learn,  so 
modest,  and  yet  with  a  humour  and  sense  of  appreciation  that  had 
promised  well  for  the  future.  A  child — an  ignorant,  charming, 
uneducated  child,  that  is  what  she  had  seemed.  He  admitted  now 
that  his  heart,  always  too  soft  and  too  gentle  perhaps,  had  been 
touched  beyond  wisdom.  She  had  seemed  to  need  just  the  pro- 
tection and  advice  that  he  had  been  fitted  to  give  her.  Then,  as 
though  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  change  had  been  made; 
from  the  moment  of  entering  into  Skeaton  there  had  been  a  new 
Maggie.  He  could  not  tell  himself,  because  he  was  not  a  man 
clever   at   psychology,   in   what  the   change   consisted.     Had   he 


SOUL  OF  PAUL  397 

been  pressed  he  would  have  said  perhaps  that  he  had  known  the 
old  Maggie  intimately,  that  nothing  that  she  could  say  or  do 
astonished  him,  but  that  this  new  Maggie  was  altogether  a  stranger. 
Time  had  not  altered  that;  with  the  passing  months  he  had  known 
her  less  and  less.  Why,  at  their  first  meeting  long  ago  in  Kather- 
ine's  house  he  had  known  her  better  than  he  knew  her  now.  He 
traced  the  steps  of  their  history  in  Skeaton;  she  had  eluded  him 
always,  never  allowing  him  to  hold  her  for  more  than  a  moment, 
vanishing  and  appearing  again,  fantastic,  in  some  strange  lighted 
distance,  hurting  him  and  disappointing  him.  .  .  .  He  stopped  in 
his  walk,  bewildered.  He  saw,  with  a  sudden  flash,  that  she  had 
never  appeared  so  fascinating  to  him  as  when  she  had  been 
strangest.  He  saw  it  now  at  the  moment  when  she  seemed 
more  darkly  strange,  more  sinister  and  dangerous  than  ever 
before. 

He  realised,  too,  at  the  same  sharp  moment  the  conflict  in  which 
he  was  engaged.  On  the  one  side  was  all  his  life,  his  sloth  and 
ease  and  comfort,  his  religion,  his  good  name,  his  easy  intercourse 
with  his  fellow-men,  Grace,  intellectual  laziness,  acceptance  of 
things  as  they  most  easily  are,  Skeaton,  regular  meals,  good  drain- 
age, moral,  physical  and  spiritual,  a  good  funeral  and  a  favourable 
obituary  in  The  Skeaton  Times.  On  the  other  hand  unrest,  ill- 
health,  separation  from  Grace,  an  elusive  and  never-to-be-satisfied 
pursuit,  scandal  and  possible  loss  of  religion,  unhappiness.  .  .  . 
At  least  it  was  to  his  credit  that  he  realised  the  conflict;  it  is 
even  further  to  his  credit  that  he  grasped  and  admitted  the  hope- 
lessness of  it.  He  knew  which  way  he  would  go;  even  now  he  was 
tired  with  the  thought  of  the  struggle;  he  sank  into  his  shabby 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  weariness;  his  hand  stretched  out  instinctively 
for  an  easy  volume.  But  oh,  Maggie !  how  strange  and  fascinating 
at  that  moment  she  appeared  to  him,  with  her  odd  silences,  her 
flashes  of  startled  surprise,  her  sense  of  being  half  the  day  in 
another  world,  her  kindness  to  him  and  then  her  sudden  terror 
of  him,  her  ignorance  and  then  the  conviction  that  she  gave  sud- 
denly to  him  that  she  knew  more  than  he  would  ever  know,  above 
all,  the  way  that  some  dark  spirit  deep  down  in  him  supported 
her  wild  rebellions,  her  irreverences,  her  irreligion,  her  scorn  of 
tradition.  Oh !  she  was  a  witch !  Grace's  word  for  her  was  right, 
but  not  Grace's  sense  of  it.  The  more  Grace  was  shocked  the 
more  tempting  to  him  the  witch  became.  It  had  seemed  to  him, 
that  day  in  Katherine's  drawing-room,  so  slight  a  thing  when  she 
had  said  that  she  did  not  love  him,  he  had  no  doubt  but  that  he 
could  change  that.    How  could  a  child,  so  raw  and  ignorant,  resist 


398  THE  CAPTIVES 

such  a  man?  And  yet  she  had  resisted.  That  resistance  had  been 
at  the  root  of  the  trouble.  Whichever  way  things  went  now,  he 
was  a  defeated  man. 

The  door  opened  and  Grace  came  in.  Looking  at  her  he  realised 
that  she  would  never  understand  the  struggle  through  which  he  had 
been  timorously  wading,  and  saw  that  she  was  further  away  from 
him  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  He  blamed  her  too.  She  had 
had  no  right  to  refuse  that  man  to  Maggie.  Had  she  allowed 
Maggie  to  see  him  none  of  this  might  have  occurred.  The  man 
was  a  forger  and  would,  had  he  lived,  have  gone  to  prison,  but 
there  would  not  then  have  been  the  same  open  scandal.  No,  he 
blamed  Grace.  It  might  be  that  their  old  absolutely  confident 
intimacy  would  never  be  renewed.  He  felt  cold  and  lonely.  He 
bent  forward,  putting  some  coal  on  the  fire,  breaking  it  up  into  a 
cheerful  blaze.  Then  he  looked  up  at  her,  and  his  heart  was 
touched.  She  looked  to-day  an  old  woman.  Her  hair  was  untidy 
and  her  face  was  dull  grey  in  colour.  Her  eyes  moved  restlessly 
round  the  room,  wandering  from  picture  to  picture,  from  the 
mantelpiece  to  the  chairs,  from  the  chairs  to  the  book-shelves,  as 
though  she  sought  in  the  sight  of  these  well-remembered  things 
some  defence  and  security. 

"  Is  your  head  better  ? "  he  asked  her,  not  meeting  her  eyes, 
because  the  dull  pain  in  them  disturbed  him. 

"  Not  much,"  she  said.  "  It's  very  bad,  my  head.  I've  taken 
aspirin.  I  didn't  eat  anything  yesterday.  Nothing  at  all  except 
some  bread  and  milk,  and  very  little  of  that.  ...  I  couldn't 
finish  it.  I  felt  I'd  be  sick.  I  said  to  Emily,  '  Emily,  if  I  eat  any 
more  of  that  I'll  be  sick,'  and  Emily  advised  me  not  to  touch  it. 
What  I  mean  is  that  if  I'd  eaten  any  more  I'd  have  been  really 
sick — at  least  that's  what  I  felt  like." 

Her  restless  eyes  came  suddenly  to  a  jerking  pause  as  though 
some  one  had  caught  and  gripped  them.  She  was  suddenly 
dramatic.    "  Oh,  Paul,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? "  she  cried. 

Paul  was  irritated  by  that.  He  hated  to  be  asked  direct  questions 
as  to  policy. 

"  What  do  you  mean  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  about  this — about  everything.  We  shall  have  to  leave 
Skeaton,  you  know.    Fancy  what  people  are  saying !  " 

Suddenly,  as  though  the  thought  of  the  scandal  was  too  much 
for  her,  her  knees  gave  way  and  she  flopped  into  a  chair. 

"  Well,  let  them  say !  "  he  answered  vigorously.  "  Grace,  you're 
making  too  much  of  all  this.  You'll  be  ill  if  you  aren't  careful. 
Pull  yourself  together." 


SOUL  OF  PAUL  399 

"  Of  course  we've  got  to  go,"  she  answered.  "  If  you  think  that 
we  can  go  on  living  here  after  all  that's  happened " 

"  Well,  why  not  ? "  he  interrupted.  "  We  haven't  done  anything. 
It's  only " 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say."  (It  was  one  of  Grace's 
most  irritating  habits  that  she  finished  other  people's  sentences  for 
them  in  a  way  that  they  had  not  intended)  "  that  if  they  look  at 
it  properly  they'll  see  that  it  wasn't  our  fault.  But  will  they  look 
at  it  properly?  Of  course  they  won't.  You  know  what  cats  they 
are.  They're  only  waiting  for  a  chance.  What  I  mean  is  that  this 
is  just  the  chance  they've  been  waiting  for. 

"  How  can  you  go  on  and  every  time  you  preach  they'll  be 
looking  up  at  you  and  saying  '  There's  a  brother  of  a  murderer '  ? 
Why,  fancy  what  you'd  feel !  " 

Paul  jumped  in  his  chair.  "What  do  you  mean,  Grace?  The, 
brother  of  a  murderer  ? " 

u  What  else  am  I  ? "  Grace  began  to  warm  her  podgy  hands. 
"  It  came  out  at  the  inquest  that  I  wouldn't  see  the  man,  didn't  it'? 
Maggie  thinks  me  a  murderer.  I  see  it  in  her  eyes  every  time. 
What  I  mean  to  say,  Paul,  is,  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
Maggie  ? " 

Grace's  voice  changed  at  that  question.  It  was  as  though  that 
other  trouble  of  the  scandal  were  nothing  to  her  compared  with 
this  matter  of  Maggie's  presence.  Paul  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  whisper  and  went  on : 

"I  won't  stay  with  Maggie  any  more.  No,  no,  no!  You  must 
choose,  Paul,  between  Maggie  and  me.  What  I  mean  is  that  it 
simply  isn't  safe  in  the  same  house  with  her.  You  may  not  have 
noticed  it  yourself,  but  I've  seen  it  coming  on  a  long  time.  I 
have  indeed.  She  isn't  right  in  her  head,  and  she  hates  me.  She's 
always  hated  me.  She'd  like  to  do  me  an  injury.  She  follows  me 
round  the  house.  She's  always  watching  me,  and  now  that  she 
thinks  that  I  killed  her  uncle  it's  worse.  I'm  not  safe,  Paul,  and 
that's  the  truth.  She  hides  in  my  room  behind  the  curtains  waiting 
for  me.  It's  my  safety  you've  got  to  consider.  It's  me  or  her.  I 
know  she's  your  wife,  but  what  I  mean  is  that  there'll  be  some- 
thing awful  happening  if  you  aren't  careful." 

Grace,  as  she  spoke,  was  a  woman  in  the  very  heart  of  a  des- 
perate panic.  Her  whole  body  trembled;  her  face  was  transfixed 
as  though  she  saw  Maggie  standing  in  front  of  her  there  with  a 
knife.  No  one  looking  at  her  could  deny  that  she  was  in  mortal 
terror — no  affectation  here.  And  Paul  loved  her.  He  came  over 
to  her  and  put  his  arm  round  her;  she  caught  hold  of  his  hand, 


400  THE  CAPTIVES 

clutched  it  desperately.  When  he  felt  the  trembling  of  her  body 
beneath  his  hand  his  love  for  her  and  protective  care  of  her  over- 
whelmed him. 

"  Grace,  dear,  it's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  You're  exaggerating  all 
this.  Maggie  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly — indeed,  she  wouldn't.  She  has 
her  faults,  perhaps,  but  cruelty  isn't  one  of  them.  You  must 
remember  that  she's  had  a  bad  time  lately  losing  her  aunt  and 
then  finding  her  uncle  in  that  horrible  way.  After  all,  she's  only 
a  child.  I  know  that  you  two  haven't  got  on  well  together,  and  I 
daresay  that  it  has  been  very  largely  my  fault;  but  you  mustn't  be 
frightened  like  that.  No  harm  shall  come  to  you  so  long  as  I  am 
alive — no  harm  whatever." 

But  she  stared  in  front  of  her,  like  a  woman  in  a  dream,  re- 
peating— 

"  No,  no,  Paul.  Either  she  goes  or  I  go.  She's  your  wife.  She 
must  stay.  Then  I  must  go.  I  can't  stand  it;  I  can't  indeed. 
I'm  not  sleeping;  I'm  not  indeed.  It  isn't  fair  to  ask  it.  What  I 
mean  is  that  it  isn't  fair  to  me." 

Although  he  had  known  Grace  for  years  he  still  believed  her 
threats  and  promises.  "  My  sister's  an  obstinate  woman,"  he  would 
say,  although  had  he  looked  truly  into  his  experience  he  must  have 
seen  that  she  changed  her  mind  more  frequently  by  far  than  she 
changed  her  clothes.  He  thought  that  now  she  meant  what  she 
said;  indeed,  on  his  own  side  he  really  did  not  see  how  in  the 
future  Maggie  and  Grace  could  continue  to  live  in  the  same  house. 
But,  as  Grace  had  said,  he  was  married  to  Maggie  and  therefore  it 
was  Grace  that  must  go.  Then  when  he  confronted  the  fact  of 
Grace's  departure  he  could  not  endure  it.  No,  he  could  not.  Had 
Maggie  been  everything  to  him  that  she  might  have  been,  had  she 
been  his  true  wife,  had  she  loved  him,  had  she — oh!  a  thousand 
things  she  might  have  been! — then  perhaps  life  would  be  possible 
without  Grace.  But  now !  ...  at  the  thought  of  being  alone  for 
ever  with  Maggie  a  strange  passion,  mingled  of  fascination  and 
fear,  affection  and  sensuality,  cowardice  and  excitement,  pervaded 
him.  What  would  their  life  together  be  ?  Then  he  turned  to  Grace 
as  the  very  rock  of  his  safety. 

"  Oh,  Grace,  you  mustn't  go — you  mustn't  think  of  going. 
Whatever  should  I  do  without  you?" 

A  dull  flush  of  gratification  coloured  her  cheeks. 

"  Either  she  goes  or  I,"  she  repeated.  "  It  can't  go  on.  You 
must   see   that   it   can't.     Fancy    what    people    must    be   think- 


ing 


t  " 


As  always,  he  postponed  the  issue. 


SOUL  OF  PAUL  401 

"We'll  settle  something.  Don't  you  worry,  dear.  You  go  and 
lie  down.    That's  what  you  want — a  thorough  good  rest." 

She  plodded  off.  For  himself  he  decided  that  fresh  air  was  what 
he  needed.  He  went  for  a  stroll.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  the 
Charleston  Road  that  led  to  the  High  Street  he  was  pleased  with 
the  day.  Early  spring;  mild,  faint  haze,  trees  dimly  purple,  a 
bird  clucking,  the  whisper  of  the  sea  stirring  the  warm  puddles 
and  rivulets  across  the  damp  dim  road.  Warm,  yes,  warm  and 
promising.  Lent  .  .  .  tiresome.  Long  services,  gloomy  ser- 
mons. Rebuking  people,  scolding  them — made  them  angry,  did 
them  no  good.  Then  Easter.  That  was  better.  Jolly  hymns. 
"  Christ  is  risen  1  Christ  is  risen ! "  Jolly  flowers — primroses, 
crocuses — (no,  they  were  earlier).  They'll  have  forgotten  about 
Maggie's  uncle  by  then.  Live  it  down — that's  the  thing.  Give 
them  a  good  genial  sermon  this  Sunday.  Show  them  he  wasn't 
caring.  ...  If  only  the  women  would  get  on  together.  Women 
— women.  How  difficult  they  were!  Yes,  Sunday  would  be  diffi- 
cult— facing  them  alL  He  knew  what  they'd  be  thinking.  He 
wanted  to  be  jolly  again.  Jolly.  That  was  the  thing.  Joking  with 
Grace,  jolly  even  with  Maggie.  Jolly  with  his  congregation.  Jolly 
with  God.  Why  wasn't  he  left  aline?  Had  been  until  Maggie 
came.  Maggie  like  a  stone  flung  into  a  frosty  pool !  Broke  every- 
thing up,  simply  because  she  was  unlike  other  people.  He'd  mar- 
ried her  because  he  thought  he  could  make  her  into  what  he 
pleased.  Well,  it  had  been  the  other  way.  Oh,  she  was  queer, 
queer,  queer. 

He  stopped,  his  large  boots  in  a  warm  puddle.  He  felt  the  warm 
sun  hot  through  the  damp  mist.  He  wanted  to  take  her  into  his 
arms,  to  hug  her,  above  all  to  feel  her  response.  To  feel  her 
response,  that  was  what,  for  years  now,  he  had  been  wanting,  and 
never  once  had  she  responded.  Never  once.  She  let  him  do  as  he 
pleased,  but  she  was  passive.  She  didn't  love  him.  Grace  loved 
him,  but  how  dull  Grace  was!  Dull — it  was  all  dull!  Grace  was 
dull,  Skeaton  was  dull,  the  church  was  dull — God  was  dull !  God  ? 
Where  was  God?  He  looked  around.  There  was  no  God.  To 
what  had  he  been  praying  all  these  years  ?  He  had  not  been  pray- 
ing. His  congregation  had  not  been  praying.  They  were  all  dead 
and  God  was  dead  too. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  his  boots  were  in  a  puddle.  He 
walked  on.  For  a  moment,  the  mists  of  sloth  and  self-indulgence 
that  had  for  years  obscured  his  vision  had  shifted  and  cleared, 
but  even  as  he  moved  they  settled  down  and  reeolved  themselves 
once  more.     The  muscles  of  Paul's  soul  were  stiff  with  disuse. 


402  THE  CAPTIVES 

Training  is  a  lengthy  affair  and  a  tiresome  business  to  the  stout 
and  middle-aged. 

The  hedges  gave  way  to  houses;  he  was  in  the  High  Street. 
He  saw  then,  plastered  at  intervals  on  the  hoardings,  strange 
phenomena.  It  was  the  colour  that  first  attracted  him — a  bright 
indecent  pink  with  huge  black  lettering.  Because  it  was  the  off- 
season in  Skeaton  other  announcements  were  few.  All  the  more 
prominent  then  the  following: 

THE  KLNGSCOTE  BRETHKEN 

WILL   HOLD  A 

RELIGIOUS  FESTIVAL 

IN  THE  TOWN  OF  SKEATON-ON-SEA 

From  April  10  to  16. 


SERVICES  10  a.m.,  3  p.m. 

SPECIAL  SONG  SERVICE,  7.30  p.m.  Daily 

All  are  Cordially  Invited. 

Addresses  by 

Rev.  JOHN  THURSTON. 

Rev.  WILLIAM  CRASHAW. 

Sister  AVIES. 

Paul  stared  at  this  placard  with  horror  and  disgust  in  his  soul. 
For  the  moment  Maggie  and  Grace  and  all  the  scandal  connected 
with  them  was  forgotten.  This  was  terrible.  By  temperament, 
tradition,  training,  he  loathed  and  feared  every  phase  of  religion 
known  to  him  as  "  Methodistic."  Under  this  term  he  included 
everything  that  was  noisy,  demonstrative,  ill-bred  and  melodra- 
matic. Once  when  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge  he  had  gone  to 
some  meeting  of  the  kind.  There  had  been  impromptu  prayers, 
ghastly  pictures  of  hell-fire,  appeals  to  the  undergraduates  to  save 
themselves  at  once  lest  it  be  too  late,  confessions  and  appeals  for 
mercy.  The  memory  of  that  evening  still  filled  him  with  physical 
nausea.  It  was  to  him  as  though  he  had  seen  some  gross  indecent 
act  in  public  or  witnessed  some  horrible  cruelty. 

Maggie  had  told  him  very  little  about  the  Chapel  and  its  doings, 
and  he  had  shrunk  from  asking  her  any  questions,  but  everything 
that  was  odd  and  unusual  in  her  behaviour  he  attributed  to  her 


SOUL  OF  PAUL  403 

months  under  that  influence.  As  he  stared  at  the  flaunting  pink 
sheet  he  felt  as  though  it  were  a  direct  personal  assault  on  him- 
self and  his  church. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  he  could  do  nothing.  Once  before  there 
had  been  something  of  the  kind  in  Skeaton  and  he  had  tried  with 
others  to  stop  it.  He  had  failed  utterly;  the  civic  authorities  in 
Skeaton  seemed  almost  to  approve  of  these  horrors.  He  looked  at 
the  thing  once  more  and  then  turned  back  towards  home.  Some- 
thing must  be  done.  .  .  .  Something  must  be  done  .  .  .  but,  as 
on  so  many  earlier  occasions  in  his  life,  he  could  face  no  clear 
course  of  action. 

That  Saturday  evening  he  tried  to  change  his  sermon.  He  had 
determined  to  deliver  a  very  fine  address  on  "  Brotherly  Love " 
and  then,  most  fortunately,  he  had  discovered  a  five-years'  old  ser- 
mon that  would,  with  a  little  adaptation,  exactly  fit  the  situa- 
tion. 

To-night  he  was  sick  of  his  adaptation.  The  sermon  had  not 
been  a  good  one  at  the  first,  and  now  it  was  a  tattered  thing  of 
shreds  and  patches.  He  tried  to  add  to  it  some  sentences  about 
the  approaching  "Revival."  No  sentences  would  come.  What  a 
horrible  fortnight  it  had  been!  He  looked  back  upon  his  district 
visiting,  his  meetings,  his  choir-practices  with  disgust.  Something 
had  come  in  between  himself  and  his  people.  Perhaps  the  rela- 
tionship had  never  been  very  real?  Founded  on  jollity.  An  eager- 
ness to  accept  anybody's  mood  for  one's  own  if  only  that  meant 
jollity.  What  had  he  thought,  standing  in  the  puddle  that  after- 
noon ?  That  they  were  all  dead,  he  and  his  congregation  and  God, 
all  dead  together?  He  sank  into  his  chair,  picked  up  the  Church 
Times,  and  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  as  he  walked  into  the  choir  this  extraordinary 
impression  that  his  congregation  was  dead  persisted.  As  he  recited 
the  "  Confession  "  he  looked  about  him.  There  was  Mr.  Maxse, 
and  there  Miss  Purves.  Every  one  was  in  his  and  her  appointed 
place;  old  Colonel  Rideout  with  the  purple  gills  not  kneeling  be- 
cause of  his  gout ;  young  Edward  Walter,  heir  to  the  sugar  factory, 
not  kneeling  because  he  was  lazy;  sporting  Mr.  Harper,  whose  golf 
handicap  was  +3,  not  kneeling  because  to  do  so  would  spoil  the 
crease  of  his  trousers;  old  Mrs.  Dean  with  her  bonnet  and  bugles, 
the  worst  gossip  in  Skeaton,  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven;  the  Quiller 
girls  with  their  hard  red  colour  and  their  hard  bright  eyes;  Mr. 
Fortinum,  senior,  with  his  County  Council  stomach  and  his  J.P. 
neck;  the  dear  old  Miss  Fursleis  who  believed  in  God  and  lived 
accordingly;  young  Captain  Trent,  who  believed  in  his  moustache 


404  THE  CAPTIVES 

and  lived  accordingly.  .  .  .  Oh  yea,  there  they  all  were — and 
there,  too,  were  Grace  and  Maggie  kneeling  side  by  side. 

Maggie!  His  eyes  rested  upon  her.  Her  face  suddenly  struck 
him  as  being  of  extraordinary  beauty.  He  had  never  thought  her 
beautiful  before;  very  plain,  of  course.  Every  one  knew  that  she 
was  plain.  But  to-day  her  face  and  profile  had  the  simplicity,  the 
purity,  the  courage  of  a  Madonna  in  one  of  the  old  pictures — or, 
rather,  of  one  of  those  St.  John  the  Baptist  boys  gazing  up  into 
the  face  of  the  Christ-child  as  it  lay  in  its  mother's  arms.  He 
finished  the  "  Confession  "  hurriedly — Maggie's  face  faded  from  his 
view;  he  saw  now  only  a  garden  of  hats  and  heads,  the  bright 
varnished  colour  of  the  church  around  and  about  them  all. 

He  gave  out  the  psalms;  there  was  a  rustle  of  leaves,  and  soon 
shrill,  untrained  voices  of  the  choir-boys  were  screaming  the  chant 
like  a  number  of  baby  steam-whistles  in  competition. 

When  he  climbed  into  the  pulpit  he  tried  again  to  discover 
Maggie's  face  as  he  had  already  seen  it.  He  could  not ;  it  had  been, 
perhaps,  a  trick  of  light  and,  in  any  case,  she  was  hidden  now  be- 
hind the  stout  stolidity  of  Grace.  He  looked  around  at  the  other 
faces  beneath  him  and  saw  them  settle  themselves  into  their  custo- 
mary expressions  of  torpor,  vacuity  and  expectation.  Very  little 
expectation!  They  knew  well  enough,  by  this  time,  the  kind  of 
thing  to  expect  from  him,  the  turn  of  phrase,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  voice,  the  pause  dramatic,  the  whisper  expostulatory,  the  thrust 
imperative,  the  smile  seductive. 

He  had  often  been  told,  as  a  curate,  that  he  was  a  wonderful 
preacher.  His  round  jolly  face,  his  beaming  smile,  a  certain  dra- 
matic gift,  had  helped  him.  "  He  is  so  human,"  he  had  heard 
people  say.  For  many  years  he  had  lived  on  that  phrase.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  this  morning  he  distrusted  his  gift.  He  was 
out  of  touch  with  them  all — because  they  were  dead,  killed  by  forms 
and  repetitions  and  monotony.  "  We're  all  dead,  you  know,  and 
I'm  dead  too.  Let's  close  the  doors  and  seal  this  church  up.  Our 
day  is  over."  He  said  of  course  nothing  of  the  kind.  His  sermon 
was  stupid,  halting  and  ineffective. 

"  Naturally,"  as  Colonel  Rideout  said  over  his  port  at  lunch, 
"  when  a  feller's  wife's  uncle  has  just  hung  himself  in  public,  so 
to  speak,  it  does  take  the  wind  out  of  you.  He  usen't  to  preach 
badly  once.    Got  stale.    They  all  do." 

As  Paul  dismissed  the  congregation  with  the  Blessing  he  felt 
that  everything  was  over.  He  was  more  completely  miserable  than 
he  had  ever  been.  He  had  in  fact  never  before  been  really  miser- 
able except  when  he  had  the  toothache. 


SOUL  OF  PAUL  405 

And  now,  also,  the  custom  of  years  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  be  miserable  for  long.  He  had  had  no  real  talk  with  Maggie 
since  the  inquest.  Maggie  came  into  his  study  that  afternoon. 
Their  conversation  was  very  quiet  and  undemonstrative;  it  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  most  important  conversations  in  both  their 
lives,  and,  often  afterwards,  Paul  looked  back  to  it,  trying  to 
retrace  in  it  the  sentences  and  movements  with  which  it  had  been 
built  up.  He  could  never  recover  anything  very  much.  He  could 
see  Maggie  sitting  in  a  way  that  she  had  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
looking  at  him  and  looking  also  far  beyond  him.  He  knew  after- 
wards that  this  was  the  last  moment  in  his  life  that  he  had  any 
contact  with  her.  Like  a  witch,  like  a  ghost,  she  had  come  into 
his  life;  like  a  witch,  like  a  ghost,  she  went  out  of  it,  leaving  him, 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  a  haunted  man. 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  realised  that  she  had  aged  in  this  last 
fortnight.  Yes,  that  horrible  affair  had  taken  it  out  of  her.  She 
seemed  to  have  recovered  self-control  at  some  strange  and  unnatu- 
ral cost — as  though  she  had  taken  some  potion  or  drug. 

She  began  by  asking  Grace's  question: 

"  Paul,  what  are  we  going  to  do?  " 

But  she  did  not  irritate  him  as  Grace  had  done.  His  one  idea 
was  to  help  her ;  unfortunately  he  had  himself  thought  out  nothing 
clearly. 

"  Well,  Maggie,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "  I  thought  you  might, 
help  me  about  that.  I  want  your  advice.  I  thought — well,  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  hadn't  settled  anything — but  I  thought  that  I 
might  get  a  locum  for  a  month  or  two  and  we  might  go  abroad  for 
a  trip  perhaps.    To  Paris,  or  Venice,  or  somewhere." 

"  And  then  come  back  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  For  a  time — yes — certainly,"  he  answered. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  ever  come  back  to  Skeaton,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  as  though  speaking  to  herself.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
controlling  herself  and  steadying  her  voice  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty. "Of  course  I  must  come,  Paul,  if  you  want  me  to.  It's 
been  all  my  fault  from  the  very  beginning " 

"  Oh  no,"  he  broke  in,  "  it  hasn't." 

"  Yes,  it  has.  I've  just  spoilt  your  life  and  Grace's.  You  were 
both  very  happy  until  I  came.  I  had  no  right  to  marry  you  when 
I  didn't  love  you.  I  didn't  know  then  all  I  know  now.  But  that's 
no  excuse.  I  should  have  known.  I  was  younger  than  most  girls 
are,  though." 

Paul  said: 

"  But  Maggie,  you're  not  to  blame  yourself  at  all.    I  think  if 


406  THE  CAPTIVES 

we  were  somewhere  else  than  Skeaton  it  would  be  easier.  And  now 
after  what  has  happened " 

Maggie  broke  in: 

"  You  couldn't  leave  Skeaton,  Paul.  You  know  you  couldn't. 
It  would  just  break  your  heart.  All  the  work  of  your  life  has  been 
here — everything  you've  ever  done.    And  Grace  too." 

"  No,  no,  you're  wrong,"  said  Paul  vigorously.  "  A  change  is 
probably  what  I  need.  I've  been  too  long  in  the  same  place.  Time 
goes  so  fast  that  one  doesn't  realise.  And  for  Grace,  too,  I  expect 
a  change  will  be  better." 

"And  do  you  think,"  said  Maggie,  "that  Grace  will  ever  live 
with  me  now  in  the  same  house  when  she  knows  that  I've  driven 
you  from  Skeaton  ?  Grace  is  quite  right.  She's  just  to  feel  as  she 
does  about  me." 

"  Then  Grace  must  go,"  said  Paul  firmly,  looking  at  Maggie  and 
feeling  that  the  one  thing  that  he  needed  was  that  she  should  be 
in  his  arms  and  he  kissing  her.    "  Maggie,  if  we  go  away,  you  and 

I,  right  away  from  all  of  this,  perhaps  then  you  can — you  will " 

he  stopped. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Never,  Paul.  Never.  Do  you  know  what 
I've  seen  this  last  week  ?  That  I've  left  all  those  who  really  wanted 
me.  My  aunts,  very  much  they  needed  me,  and  I  was  selfish  and 
wouldn't  give  them  what  they  wanted,  and  tried  to  escape  from 
them.  You  and  Grace  don't  need  me.  Nobody  wants  anything  here 
in  Skeaton.  You're  all  full.  It  isn't  my  fault,  Paul,  but  every- 
thing seems  to  me  dead  here.  They  don't  mean  anything  they  say 
in  Church,  and  the  Church  doesn't  mean  anything  either.  The 
Chapel  was  wrong  in  London  too,  but  it  was  more  right  than  the 
Church  here  is.  I  don't  know  what  religion  is  or  where  it  is: 
I  don't  know  anything  now  except  that  one  ought  to  be  with  the 
people  who  want  one  and  not  with  the  people  who  don't.  Aunt 
wanted  me  and  I  failed  her.    Uncle  wanted  me  and  I — I — I " 

She  broke  down,  crying,  her  head  in  her  arms.  He  went  over 
to  her  and  put  his  arms  around  her.  At  his  touch  she  shrank  a 
little,  and  when  he  felt  that  he  went  away  from  her  and  stood, 
silently,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"Maggie,  don't — don't,  Maggie.    I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  cry." 

"  I've  done  all  wrong — I've  done  all  wrong,"  she  answered  him. 
"  I've  been  wrong  always." 

His  helplessness  was  intolerable.  He  knew  that  she  would  not 
allow  him  to  touch  her.  He  went  out  closing  the  door  softly  be- 
hind him. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  REVIVAL 

MAGGIE  cried  for  a  little  while,  then,  slowly  recovering:, 
realised  that  she  was  alone  in  the  room.  She  raised  her 
head  and  listened ;  then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  stood  up,  wondering 
what  she  should  do  next. 

During  the  last  week  she  had  spent  all  her  energy  on  one  thing 
alone — to  keep  back  from  her  the  picture  of  Uncle  Mathew's  death. 
That  at  all  costs  she  must  not  see.  There  it  was,  just  behind  her, 
hovering  with  all  its  detail,  at  her  elbow.  All  day  and  most  of  the 
night  she  was  conscious  of  it  there,  but  she  would  not  turn  and 
look.  Uncle  Mathew  was  dead — that  was  all  that  she  must  know. 
Aunt  Anne  was  dead  too.  Martin  had  written  to  her,  and  then, 
because  she  had  not  answered,  had  abandoned  her.  Paul  and 
Grace  were  to  be  driven  out  of  Skeaton  because  of  her.  Grace 
hated  her;  Paul  would  never  love  her  unless  she  in  return  would 
love  him — and  that  she  would  never  do  because  she  loved  Martin. 
She  was  alone  then. 

She  had  made  every  one  unhappy — Aunt  Anne,  Uncle  Mathew, 
Paul,  Grace;  the  best  thing  that  she  could  do  now  was  to  go  away 
and  hide  herself  somewhere. 

That,  at  least,  she  saw  very  clearly  and  she  clung  to  it.  If  she 
went  away  Paul  and  Grace  need  not  leave  Skeaton;  soon  they 
would  forget  her  and  be  happy  once  more  as  they  had  been  before 
she  came.  But  where  should  she  go?  All  her  life  she  had  de- 
pended upon  her  own  self-reliance,  but  now  that  had  left  her.  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  not  move  unless  there  was  some  one  some- 
where who  cared  for  her.  But  there  was  no  one.  Katherine  Mark. 
No,  she  certainly  could  never  go  there  again.  Behind  all  this 
was  the  constant  preoccupation  that  she  must  not  look,  for 
an  instant,  at  Uncle  Mathew's  death.  If  she  did  everything 
would  break.  .  .  .  She  must  not.  She  must  not.  She  must 
not. 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  took  from  their  box  Martin's  letters 
and  the  ring  with  the  three  pearls,  and  the  tattered  programme. 
She  sat  on  her  bed  and  turned  them  over  and  over.  She  was  be- 
wildered and  scarcely  knew  where  she  was.     She  repeated  again 

407 


408  THE  CAPTIVES 

and  again:  "I  must  go  away  at  once.  ...  I  must  go  away  at 
once." 

Then  as  though  moved  by  some  compelling  force  that  she  did 
not  recognise  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  crying :  "  Martin, 
Martin,  I  want  you.  I  don't  know  where  you  are  but  I  must  find 
you.  Martin,  tell  me  where  you  are.  I'll  go  to  you  anywhere. 
Martin,  where  are  you  ?    Where  are  you  ?  " 

It  may  not  have  been  a  vocal  cry;  perhaps  she  made  no  sound, 
but  she  waited,  there  on  her  knees,  hearing  very  clearly  the  bells 
ringing  for  evening  service  and  seeing  the  evening  sun  steal 
across  her  carpet  and  touch  gently,  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Gradually  as  she  knelt  there,  calm  and  reassurance  came  back 
to  her.  She  felt  as  though  he,  somewhere  lost  in  the  world,  had 
heard  her.  She  laid  her  cheek  upon  the  quilt  of  the  bed  and,  for 
the  first  time  since  Uncle  Mathew's  death,  her  thoughts  worked  in 
connected  order,  her  courage  returned  to  her,  and  she  saw  the  room 
and  the  sun  and  the  trees  beyond  the  window  as  real  objects,  with- 
out the  mist  of  terror  and  despair  that  had  hitherto  surrounded 
her. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  as  though  she  were  withdrawing  from 
a  horrible  nightmare.  She  could  remember  nothing  of  the  events 
of  the  last  week  save  her  talk  with  Paul  that  afternoon.  She 
could  recall  nothing  of  the  inquest,  nor  whether  she  had  been  to 
Church,  nor  any  scene  with  Grace. 

"  So  long  as  I'm  alive  and  Martin's  alive  it's  all  right,"  she 
thought.    She  knew  that  he  was  alive.    She  would  find  him. 

She  put  away  the  things  into  the  box  again;  she  had  not  yet 
thought  what  she  would  do,  but,  in  some  way,  she  had  received 
during  those  few  minutes  in  her  room  a  reassurance  that  she  was 
not  alone. 

She  went  out  into  the  spring  dusk.  She  chose  the  road  towards 
Barnham  Wood  because  it  was  lonely  there  and  the  hedges  were 
thin;  you  could  feel  the  breath  of  the  sea  as  it  blew  across  the 
sparse  fields.  The  hush  of  an  English  Sunday  evening  enfolded 
the  road,  the  wood,  the  fields.  The  sun  was  very  low  and  the 
saffron  light  penetrated  the  dark  lines  of  the  hedges  and  hung  like 
a  curtain  of  misty  gold  before  the  approaches  to  the  wood.  The 
red-brown  fields  rolled  to  the  horizon  and  lay,  like  a  carpet,  at  the 
foot  of  the  town  huddled  against  the  pale  sky. 

She  was  near  the  wood,  and  could  see  the  little  dark  twisted  cone- 
strewn  paths  that  led  into  the  purple  depths,  when  a  woman  came 
out  of  it  towards  her.  She  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Toms.  It  seemed 
quite  natural  to  see  her  there  because  it  was  on  this  same  road 


f 


THE  REVIVAL  409 

that  she  had  first  met  the  lady  and  her  brother.  Miss  Toms  also 
did  not  seem  at  all  surprised.  She  shook  Maggie  warmly  by  the 
hand. 

"  You  said  that  I  wouldn't  come  often  to  see  you,"  said  Maggie. 
u  And  it's  been  true.  Things  have  been  more  difficult  for  me  than 
I  knew  at  the  time." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Miss  Toms. 

"  But  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  said  Maggie,  "  that  although  I  haven't 
been  to  see  you,  I've  felt  as  though  you  and  your  brother  were  my 
friends,  more  than  any  one  in  this  place.  And  that's  been  a  great 
help  to  me." 

They  started  to  walk  down  the  road  together. 

"  You've  been  in  trouble,"  said  Miss  Toms.  "  Of  course  I've 
heard  about  it.  I  would  have  liked  to  come  and  see  you  but  I 
didn't  know  how  your  sister-in-law  would  like  it." 

She  put  her  arm  through  Maggie's.  . 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  be  discouraged.    Because  Skeaton  \ 
is  dead  it  doesn't  mean  that  all  the  world  is.    And  remember  this. 
The  world's  view  of  any  one  is  never  the  right  one.    I  know  that 
the  world  thinks  my  brother's  mad,  but   I  know   that  he's   a   lot    \ 
saner  than  most  people.    The  world  thinks  your  uncle  was  a  rascal,    \ 
but  if  you  can  remember  one  good  thing  he  did  you  know  he  wasn't, 
and  I'm  sure  you  can  remember  many  good  things." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Maggie.  "It  is  that  I  seem  to  have  done 
everything  wrong  and  made  every  one  I  had  to  do  with  unhappy." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Toms.  "I'm  sure  if  they've  been  un- 
happy it's  their  own  fault.  Isn't  the  evening  air  lovely  ?  At  times 
like  these  I  wonder  that  Skeaton  can  dare  to  exist.  You'll  come 
and  see  us  one  day,  won't  you  ? " 

"  I  think — I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie;  " I  may  be  going  away." 

Miss  Toms  gave  her  a  penetrating  look. 

"  I  daresay  you're  right.  Skeaton's  not  the  place  for  you.  I  saw 
that  the  first  time  we  met.  Well,  whatever  you  do,  don't  lose  your 
pluck.  You're  yourself,  you  know,  and  you're  as  good  as  anybody 
else.  Don't  you  forget  that.  Because  a  lot  of  people  say  a  thing 
it  doesn't  mean  it's  true,  and  because  a  set  of  jdiotiQhink  a  thing 
'shocking  it  doesn't  mean  that  it's  shocking.  Think  how  wrong 
people  have  always  been  about  everything!"  ^N. 

They  turned  down  a  side  lane  and  arrived  in  the  High  Street. 
The  street  was  very  empty.  In  the  fading  light  a  large  pink  poster 
attracted  Maggie's  attention.  She  went  close  to  it  and  read  the 
announcement  of  the  Revival  services. 

When  she  read  the  names  of  Thurston  and  Mr.  Crashaw  and 


410  THE  CAPTIVES 

Miss  Avies  it  seemed  to  her  incredible,  and  then  at  the  same  time 
as  something  that  she  had  always  expected. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it's  coming  here !  "  She  was  strangely  startled 
as  though  the  sign  of  Thurston's  name  was  strange  forewarning. 

"What's  coming?  "  asked  Miss  Toms. 

She  read  the  notice. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think,"  said  Miss  Toms,  "  but  that  kind 
of  thing's  humbug  if  you  ask  me." 

"  Oh !  "  Maggie  cried.  "  It's  so  strange.  I  knew  those  people  in 
London.  I  used  to  go  to  their  services.  And  now  they're  coming 
here!" 

She  could  not  explain  to  Miss  Toms  the  mysterious  assurance 
that  she  had  of  the  way  that  her  former  world  was  drawing  near 
to  her  again.  She  could  see  now  that  never  for  a  moment  since 
her  arrival  in  Skeaton  had  it  let  her  alone,  slowly  invading  her, 
bit  by  bit  driving  in  upon  her,  forcing  her  to  retire.  .    .    . 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  Because  it  was  Sunday  evening  the  shops 
were  closed.  Only  behind  some  of  the  curtained  windows  dim 
lights  burned.  Very  clearly  the  sea  could  be  heard  breaking  upon 
the  shore.  The  last  note  of  the  bell  from  the  Methodist  Chapel 
echoed  across  the  roofs  and  stones. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Miss  Toms. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Maggie. 

She  turned  back  towards  home  hearing,  as  she  went,  Thurston's 
voice,  seeing  beyond  all  the  thick  shadow  of  Martin's  body,  keeping 
pace  with  her,  as  it  seemed,  step  by  step  with  her  as  she  went. 

She  turned  into  the  Rectory  drive.  She  heard  with  a  startled 
shiver  the  long  gate  swing  screaming  behind  her,  she  could  smell 
very  faintly  the  leaves  of  the  damp  cold  laurel  bushes  that  pressed 
close  in  upon  her.  It  was  as  though  some  one  were  walking  with 
her  and  whispering  in  her  ear :  "  They're  coming !  They're  coming ! 
They've  got  you !    They've  got  you !  " 

She  opened  the  hall  door;  the  hall  was  all  dark;  some  one  was 
there.  Maggie  gave  a  little  cry.  A  match  was  struck  and  revealed 
the  white  face  of  Grace.    The  two  women  stared  at  one  another. 

Grace  had  returned  from  Church;  she  was  wearing  her  ugly 
black  hat  with  the  red  velvet. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Maggie,  "  I've  been  for  a  walk." 

"  Oh — I  didn't  know,"  gasped  Grace,  still  staring.  "  I  thought 
— yes,  of  course.    Fancy,  you've  been  for  a  walk !  " 

Still  staring  as  though  she  could  keep  Maggie  at  bay  only  by  the 
power  of  her  vision  she  backed  on  to  Paul's  study  door,  turned  the 
handle,  and  disappeared. 


THE  REVIVAL  411 

The  hall  was  in  darkness  again.  Maggie  stumbled  her  way  to- 
wards the  staircase,  then,  seeing  Grace's  terrified  eyes,  filled  with 
a  horror  that  she,  Maggie  Cardinal,  should  cause  any  one  to  look 
at  her  like  that,  she  ran  clumsily  upstairs,  shutting  herself  into 
her  bedroom. 

During  the  next  fortnight  the  dominant  element  in  the  situa- 
tion was  Grace's  terror.  Skeaton  was  already  beginning  to  forget 
the  story  of  the  suicide.  Maggie  was  marked  for  ever  now  as 
"queer  and  strange,"  but  Paul  was  not  blamed;  he  was  rather, 
pitied  and  even  liked  the  more.  But  Grace  could  not  forget. 
Maggie  intended  perhaps  to  murder  her  in  revenge  for  her  uncle's 
death;  well,  then,  she  must  be  murdered.  .  .  .  She  would  not 
leave  her  brother.  She  could  not  consider  the  future.  She  knew 
that  she  could  not  live  in  the  same  house  with  Maggie  for  long, 
but  she  would  not  go  and  Maggie  would  not  go.  .  .  .  What  was 
to  happen  ? 

Poor  Grace,  the  tortures  that  she  suffered  during  those  weeks 
will  not  be  understood  by  persons  with  self-confidence  and  a  hearty 
contempt  for  superstition. 

She  paid  the  penalty  now  for  the  ghosts  of  her  childhood — and 
no  one  could  help  her. 

Maggie  saw  that  Paul  was,  with  every  day,  increasingly  un- 
happy. He  had  never  been  trained  to  conceal  his  feelings,  and 
although  he  tried  now  he  succeeded  very  badly.  He  would  come 
into  her  room  in  the  early  morning  hours  and  lie  down  beside  her. 
He  would  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kiss  her,  and,  desperately, 
as  though  he  were  doing  it  for  a  wager,  make  love  to  her.  She 
felt,  desperate  also  on  her  side,  that  she  could  comfort  and  make 
him  happy,  if  only  he  would  want  something  less  from  her  than 
passion.  But  always  after  an  hour  or  a  little  more,  he  crept  away 
again  to  his  own  room,  disappointed,  angered,  frustrated.  These 
hours  were  the  stranger  because,  during  the  day,  he  showed  her 
nothing  of  this  mood,  but  was  kindly  and  friendly  and  distant. 

She  would  have  done  anything  for  him;  she  tried  sometimes  to 
be  affectionate  to  him,  but  always,  at  once,  he  turned  upon  her  with 
a  hungry,  impassioned  look.  .    .    . 

She  knew,  without  any  kind  of  doubt,  that  the  only  way  that  she 
could  make  him  happy  again  was  to  leave  him.  His  was  not  a 
nature  to  brood,  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  on  something  that  he  had 
lost. 

Only  once  did  he  make  any  allusion  to  the  coming  Revival  serv- 
ices. He  burst  out  one  day,  at  luncheon:  "The  most  scandalous 
thing !  "  he  said.     "  We  had  them  here  once,  years  ago,  and  the 


412  THE  CAPTIVES 

harm  they  did  no  one  would  believe.  I've  been  to  Tamar  about  it; 
he  can  do  nothing,  unless  they  disturb  the  public  peace,  of  course. 
He  had  the  impertinence  to  tell  me  that  they  behaved  very  well 
last  time  they  were  here  1 " 

"  I  don't  like  that  man,"  said  Grace.  "  I  don't  believe  he  makes 
his  money  properly.  Look  at  the  clothes  Mrs.  Tamar  wears !  What 
I  mean  is,  I  don't  like  his  wife  at  all." 

"  It's  very  hard,"  said  Paul,  his  voice  trembling  with  indigna- 
tion, "  that  when  men  and  women  have  been  working  for  years  to 
bring  Christ  into  the  hearts  of  mankind  that  mountebanks  and 
hypocrites  should  be  allowed  to  undo  the  work  in  the  space  of  a 
night.  I  know  this  man  Thurston.  They've  had  letters  in  the 
Church  Times  about  him." 

"  Fancy ! "  said  Grace,  "  and  still  he  dares  show  his  face." 

"  But  do  they  really  do  so  much  harm  ? "  asked  Maggie.  *  I 
should  have  thought  if  they  only  came  once  for  a  week  in  ten 
years  they  couldn't  make  any  real  effect  on  anybody " 

"  Maggie,  dear,"  said  Paul  gently,  "  you  don't  understand." 

As  the  day  of  the  Revival  approached,  Maggie  knew  that  she 
would  go  to  one  of  the  services.  She  was  now  in  a  strange  state 
of  excitement.  The  shock  of  her  uncle's  death  had  undoubtedly 
shaken  her  whole  balance,  moral,  physical,  and  mental.  The  fort- 
night that  had  followed  it,  when  she  had  clung  like  a  man  falling 
from  a  height  and  held  by  a  rocky  ledge  to  the  one  determination 
not  to  look  either  behind  or  in  front  of  her,  had  been  a  strain  be- 
yond her  strength. 

She  did  not  know;  she  did  not  feel  any  weakness;  she  felt  rather 
a  curious  atmosphere  of  light  and  expectation  as  though  that  cry 
to  Martin  in  her  bedroom  had  truly  been  answered.  And  she  felt 
more  than  this.  Old  Magnus  had  once  said  to  her :  "  I  don't  know 
what  religion  is  except  that  it  is  a  fight — and  some  people  join  in 
because  they  want  to,  some  are  forced  to  join  in  whether  they 
want  to  or  no,  some  just  leave  it  alone,  and  some  (most)  don't 
know  there's  one  going  on  at  all.  But  if  you  don't  join  in  you 
seem  to  me  to  have  wasted  your  time." 

She  had  not  understood  in  the  least  what  he  meant;  she  did  not 
understand  now;  but,  thinking  of  his  words,  it  did  seem  to  her 
that  she  was  sharing  in  some  conflict.  The  vast  armies  hidden 
from  her  by  mist,  the  contested  ground  also  hidden,  but  the  clash 
of  arms  clearly  to  be  heard.  Her  own  part  of  a  struggle  seemed 
to  be  round  her  love  for  Martin;  it  was  as  though,  if  she  could 
get  some  realisation  of  that,  she  would  have  won  her  way  to  a 
vantage-point  whence  she  could  visualise  the  next  place.     She  did 


THE  REVIVAL  413 

not  think  this  out.  She  only  felt  in  her  heart  a  little  less  lonely,  a 
little  less  wicked  and  selfish,  a  little  less  deserted,  as  though  she 
were  drawing  nearer  to  some  hidden  fire  and  could  feel  the  first 
warm  shadow  of  the  flames. 

She  made  one  more  appeal  to  Grace  on  the  very  morning  of  the 
first  day  of  the  Revival. 

After  breakfast  Maggie  came  into  the  drawing-room  and  found 
Grace  sitting  there  sewing. 

She  stood,  timidly,  in  her  old  attitude,  her  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  her,  like  a  child  saying  her  lesson. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grace." 

Grace  looked  up.  She  had  of  course  been  conscious  of  Maggie 
ever  since  her  entrance  into  the  room.  Her  hands  had  trembled 
and  her  heart  leapt  furiously. 

"Why,  Maggie "  she  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,"  said  Maggie,  "  but  we  haven't 
really  said  anything  to  one  another  for  the  last  fortnight.  I  don't 
suppose  that  you  want  me  to  say  anything  now,  but  things  get 
worse  and  worse  if  no  one  says  anything,  don't  they?"  Now  that 
she  had  begun  she  went  on  quickly :  "  I  wanted  to  say,  Grace,  how 
sorry  I  am  for  the  trouble  and  unhappiness  that  you  and  Paul 
have  had  during  the  last  fortnight  through  me.  I've  been  nothing 
but  a  trouble  to  you  since  I  first  came  here,  but  it  wasn't  that 
that  I  wanted  to  say.  I  couldn't  bear  that  you  should  think  that 
I  was  just  selfishly  full  of  my  own  affairs  and  didn't  understand 
how  you  and  Paul  must  feel  about — about  my  uncle.  Not  that  I 
mean,"  she  went  on  rather  fiercely,  raising  her  head,  "  that  he  was 
to  blame.  No  one  ever  understood  him.  He  could  have  done  great 
things  if — if — some  one  had  looked  after  him  a  little.  But  he 
hadn't  any  one.  That  was  my  fault.  I  didn't  want  you  and  Paul 
to  think  I  don't  blame  myself.  I  do  all  the  time.  I  can't  promise 
to  be  better  in  the  future  because  I've  promised  so  often  and  I 
never  am.    But  I  am  sorry." 

Grace  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Her  hands  trembled  more 
than  ever.  Then,  without  looking  up,  she  murmured  as  though  to 
her  sewing: 

u  Oh  no,  Maggie  ...  no  one  blames  you,  I'm  sure." 

There  was  another  pause,  then  Grace  said: 

"  I  think  I'm  not  well.  No,  I  can't  be  well  because  I'm  not 
sleeping,  although  I've  taken  aspirin  more,  I'm  sure,  than  I  ought 
to.  What  I  mean  is  that  they  say  it's  bad  for  your  heart.  Of 
course  things  have  been  very  unfortunate,  from  the  beginning  one 
might  say,  but  I'm  sure  it's  not  been  any  one's  fault  exactly.    What 


414  THE  CAPTIVES 

I  mean  is  that  these  things  never  are.  .  .  .  No,  they  aren't  really. 
I  expect  we  all  want  a  change." 

"  What  are  you  frightened  of  me  for,  Grace,"  asked  Maggie. 

Grace  started  as  though  Maggie  had  indeed  dropped  a  bomb  at 
her  feet.  She  looked  up  at  Maggie,  wildly,  her  eyes  staring 
about  the  room  as  though  she  were  looking  for  some  exit  of 
escape. 

"  Frightened  \  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  said  Maggie.  "  That's  what  worries  me  most. 
No  one's  ever  been  frightened  of  me  before — at  least  I  don't  think 
any  one  has."  Maggie  laughed.  "  Why,  Grace,  it  seems  so  funny 
any  one  being  frightened  of  me.  I  couldn't  hurt  any  one  if  I 
wanted  to,  and  I'm  sure  I  never  want  to  unless  it's  Mrs.  Maxse. 
Be  angry  with  me  as  much  as  you  like,  Grace,  but  don't  be  fright- 
ened of  me.    Why,  that's  ridiculous !  " 

It  was  the  worst  word  to  have  chosen.  Grace  flushed  a  dull  un- 
wholesome purple. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  think  me  ridiculous,  Maggie,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
haps I  am.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Yes,  perhaps  I  am.  What  I 
mean  is  that  what's  ridiculous  to  one  is  not  ridiculous  to  another. 
You're  a  strange  girl,  Maggie,  and  you  and  I  will  never  get  on. 
No,  never.  But  all  I  ask  is  that  you  should  make  Paul  happy. 
That  is  enough  for  me.  I  care  for  nothing  else.  He  isn't  very 
happy  just  now.  What  I  mean  is  that  any  one  can  see  he  isn't 
eating  his  meals  properly." 

"  Oh,  Grace,"  cried  Maggie.  "  I  didn't  mean  that  you  were  ridicu- 
lous. I  meant  that  any  one  being  frightened  of  me  was  ridiculous. 
Anyway,  I'm  very  sorry  that  I've  made  you  and  Paul  unhappy. 
That's  all." 

She  turned  and  went. 

It  was  the  most  lovely  of  April  days,  soft,  primrose-coloured, 
the  sea-breeze  gently  tempered  by  mist-veiled  sun.  Maggie  sat  at 
her  bedroom  window  overlooking  the  drive  and  the  blue-grey  field 
that  ran  to  the  woods.  She  knew  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
about  her  escape  to  the  Revival  meeting.  Paul  had  arranged  that 
there  should  be  an  evening  service  at  the  Church  at  the  same  hour, 
an  act  of  rather  Un-Christian  defiance.  Maggie  sat  there,  looking 
down  in  a  condition  of  strange  bewildering  excitement  on  to  the 
laurel  bushes.  It  was  wonderful  to  think  that  in  another  half-hour 
she  would  see  Miss  Avies  once  more,  hear  those  wild  hymns  again, 
catch  the  stridency  of  Thurston's  voice;  all  these  things  spoke  of 
Martin.  She  felt  as  though  he  were  stealing  towards  her  out  of 
the  dusk,  it  was  as  though,  without  any  reason,  she  expected  to 


THE  REVIVAL  415 

find  him  at  the  service  .  .  .  although  she  knew  that  he  could  not 
be  there. 

She  heard  the  Church  bell  begin  to  ring,  then  the  hall-door 
opened  and  Paul  came  out.  He  had  on  his  soft  black  hat,  he  was 
carrying  his  Bible  and  prayer-book  under  his  arm.  He  stood,  for 
a  moment,  beside  the  hall-door  as  though  he  were  listening  or 
expecting  something.  She  had  a  strange  impulse  to  run  down  to 
him;  so  strong  was  it  that  she  got  up  and  moved  to  the  door. 
Then  slowly  she  came  back  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  him.  Suddenly,  as  though  he  felt  her  gaze,  he  glanced  up, 
saw  her,  and  waved  to  her.  She  waved  back  to  him.  He  turned 
and  walked  quickly  away,  she  heard  the  gate  swing,  screaming 
behind  him. 

She  waited  for  a  little,  then  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  went 
out.  She  knew  the  Flower  Street  Hall,  a  place  occasionally  used 
by  touring  Companies,  Wandering  Lecturers,  Charitable  Concerts, 
and  other  casual  festivals.  It  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  town 
towards  the  end  of  the  Promenade. 

The  town,  dim  in  the  first  dusk,  hummed  with  loiterers,  girls 
released  from  the  shops  walking  with  their  young  men,  middle- 
aged  couples  sauntering  out  to  take  a  last  whiff  of  the  sea  before 
going  in  to  the  evening  meal,  one  or  two  visitors  from  the  Hotel 
strolling  across  to  the  beach  to  watch  the  first  evening  stars  and  the 
rising  moon.  Pianos  were  playing,  children  shouting  over  the  last 
game  of  the  day;  all  hushed  into  a  coloured  mild  tranquillity.  In 
the  fields  beyond  the  houses  the  quiet  was  absolute. 

Maggie  found  the  building.  The  fagade  was  blazing  with 
electric  light.    A  huge  poster,  of  the  now  familiar  pink,  declared: 

GRAND  RELIGIOUS  FESTIVAL. 

All  are  invited. 

IS  ALL  WELL  WITH  YOU,  BROTHER? 

There  was  a  crowd  about  the  doors,  and  continually,  with  giggles 
and  shamefaced  laughter,  couples  broke  away  and  climbed  the 
steps  into  the  Hall.  Maggie,  feeling  that  all  eyes  were  upon  her, 
entered  the  building.  In  the  vestibule  two  grave-faced  women  in 
black  bonnets  handed  papers  with  prayers  and  hymns  to  every 
newcomer.  Maggie  took  hers,  a  door  was  opened  in  front  of  her. 
and  she  went  in.  The  auditorium  was  a  large  one,  semicircular 
in  shape,  with  tiers  of  seats  rising  circus-fashion  to  a  ceiling  deco- 
rated with  silver  stars  and  pink  naked  cherubs.  The  stage  had 
upon  it  a  table,  some  chairs,  and  a  reading-desk  draped  in  crimson 


416  THE  CAPTIVES 

cloth.  Below  the  stage  was  a  small  orchestra,  consisting  of  two 
fiddles,  a  cornet,  drum,  and  a  piano.  There  was  also  what  seemed 
to  Maggie  a  small  choir,  some  women  dressed  in  white  and  some 
men  in  black  coats  and  white  bow  ties.  Across  the  stage  were  sus- 
pended broad  white  bands  of  cloth  with  "  Come  to  Jesus ! "  "  Come 
now !  "  "  He  is  waiting  for  you !  "  in  big  black  letters. 

The  hall  seemed  very  full,  and  was  violently  illuminated  with 
electric  light.  Maggie  took  this  in  as  she  stood  very  timidly  just 
inside  the  door.  A  steward  came  forward  and  showed  her  a  corner- 
seat.  She  saw,  then,  with  a  dramatic  flash  of  recognition,  Thurs- 
ton and  Mr.  Crashaw  sitting  behind  the  table;  then,  with  a  still 
stranger  emotion,  Miss  Avies  as  one  of  the  white-robed  choir.  The 
sight  of  those  three  familiar  faces  seemed  to  close,  finally  and  defi- 
nitely, the  impression  that  she  had  had  during  all  those  last  weeks. 
They  had  "  got "  her  again,  and  yet  not  they,  but  the  power  behind 
them.  It  seemed  only  five  minutes  ago  that  she  had  sat  in  the 
London  Chapel  and  heard  old  Crashaw  scream  "Punishment! 
Punishment !  Punishment !  "  She  turned  half  in  her  seat  as 
though  she  expected  to  see  Aunt  Anne  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  sitting 
one  on  either  side  of  her.  She  looked  at  Thurston;  he  had 
coarsened  very  much  since  she  had  seen  him  last.  He  was  fatter, 
his  cheeks  stained  with  an  unnaturally  high  colour,  his  eyes 
brighter  and  sharper  and  yet  sensual  too.  He  was  smarter  than 
he  had  been,  his  white  bow  tie  stiff  and  shapely,  his  cuffs  clean 
and  shining,  his  hair  very  carefully  brushed  back  from  his  high  and 
bony  forehead.  His  sharp  eyes  darted  all  over  the  building,  and 
Maggie  felt  as  though  at  any  moment  she  would  be  discovered. 
Crashaw  looked  more  like  a  decrepit  monkey  than  ever,  huddled  up 
in  his  chair,  his  back  bow-shaped.  He  breathed  into  his  hands  as 
though  he  wanted  to  warm  them,  and  looked  at  nobody.  Miss 
Avies  Maggie  could  not  see  clearly. 

Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  audience.  She  saw  many  towns- 
people whom  she  knew,  and  she  realised,  for  the  first  time,  that  to- 
morrow everywhere  it  would  be  said  that  the  Rector's  wife  had  been 
at  the  Revival  meeting. 

And  how  different  an  audience  from  the  old  London  one.  Every 
one  had  come  on  this  occasion  to  see  a  show,  and  it  was  certainly 
a  show  that  they  were  going  to  see.  Maggie  had  entered  during  a 
pause,  and  all  the  faces  that  were  there  wore  that  look  of  expecta- 
tion that  demands  the  rising  of  the  curtain.  Soon,  Maggie  felt, 
they  would  stamp  and  whistle  did  the  play  not  begin. 

Thurston  rose  and  announced: 

"  My  brothers,  we  will  sing  hymn  No.  14  on  the  paper." 


THE  REVIVAL  41? 

Maggie  looked  and  discovered  that  it  was  the  hymn  that  had 
once  moved  her  so  dramatically  in  London  with  the  words 

By  all  Thy  sores  and  bloody  pain 
Come  down  and  heal  our  sins  again. 

and  with  the  last  refrain : 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Iamb 
We  beseech  Thee. 

Already,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of  her  consciousness  of  the 
melodrama  and  meretricious  glitter  of  the  scene,  her  heart  was 
beating.  She  was  more  deeply  moved,  even  now,  than  she  had 
ever  been  by  all  the  services  of  the  Skeaton  Church. 

And  Thurston  had  learnt  his  job  by  this  time.  Softly  one  of 
the  violins  played  the  tune.    Then  Thurston  said : 

"  The  first  verse  of  this  hymn  will  be  sung  by  the  choir  alone. 
The  congregation  is  asked  to  stand  and  then  to  join  in  the  second 
verse.    The  fourth  verse  will  be  sung  by  the  soloist." 

The  audience  rose.  There  was  a  hush  of  expectation  throughout 
the  building.  The  choir,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  fiddlers 
alone,  sang  the  first  verse.  They  had  been  well  selected  and  trained. 
Thurston  obviously  spared  no  expense.  For  the  second  verse,  the 
whole  orchestra  combined,  the  drum  booming  through  the  refrain. 
At  first  the  congregation  was  timid,  but  the  tune  was  simple  and 
attractive.  The  third  ver9e  was  sung  by  every  one,  and  Maggie 
found  herself,  almost  against  her  will,  joining  in.  At  the  fourth 
verse  there  was  again  the  hush  of  expectation,  then  a  soprano,  thin 
and  clear,  accompanied  again  by  one  violin,  broke  the  silence. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  this  was  very  moving.  Men  and  women 
sat  down  at  the  hymn's  close  quite  visibly  affected. 

Thurston  got  up  then  and  read  a  lesson  from  the  Bible.  He- 
read  from  the  Revelations: 

"  After  this  I  looked,  and,  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  heaven : 
and  the  first  voice  which  I  heard  was  as  it  were  of  a  trumpet  talk- 
ing with  me;  which  said,  Come  up  hither,  and  I  will  shew  thee 
things  which  must  be  hereafter. 

And  immediately  I  was  in  the  Spirit:  and,  behold,  a  throne  was 
set  in  heaven,  and  one  sat  on  the  throne. 

And  he  that  sat  was  to  look  upon  like  a  jasper  and  a  sardine 
Btone:  and  there  was  a  rainbow  round  about  the  throne,  in  sight 
like  unto  an  emerald. 


418  THE  CAPTIVES 

And  round  about  the  throne  were  four  and  twenty  seats:  and 
upon  the  seats  I  saw  four  and  twenty  elders  sitting,  clothed  in 
white  raiment ;  and  they  had  on  their  heads  crowns  of  gold." 

Thurston  had  worked  hard  during  these  last  years,  he  had  im- 
mensely improved  his  accent,  and  his  h's  were  all  in  their  right 
places.  He  read  very  dramatically,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper, 
then  pausing  and  staring  in  front  of  him  as  though  he  saw  God 
only  a  few  yards  away.  The  people  of  Skeaton  had  had  few  op- 
portunities of  any  first-class  dramatic  entertainment.  When 
Thurston  finished  there  passed  through  the  building  a  wave  of  ex- 
citement, a  stir,  a  faint  murmur.  An  old  woman  next  to  Maggie 
wiped  her  eyes.    "  Lovely !  "  Maggie  heard  her  whisper.    "  Lovely !  " 

They  sang,  then,  another  hymn,  accompanied  by  the  orchestra. 
This  was  a  dramatic  hymn  with  a  fiery  martial  tune: 

The  Lord  of  War  He  cometh  down 

With  Sword  and  Shield  and  Armour  Bright, 

His  armies  all  behind  him  Frown, 

Who  can  withstand  His  Light  ? 

Chorus.      Trumpets  Blare, 

The  drum-taps  Roll, 
Prepare  to  meet  Thy  God, 
Oh  Soul! 
Prepare !    Prepare ! 

Prepare  to  meet  Thy  God,  oh  Soul! 

Never  before  had  the  men  and  women  of  Skeaton  heard  such 
hymns.  The  Revival  of  ten  years  ago,  lacking  the  vibrant  spirit 
of  Mr.  John  Thurston,  had  been  a  very  different  affair.  This  was 
something  quite  new  in  all  Skeaton  experience.  Red-hot  expecta- 
tion flamed  now  in  every  eye.  Maggie  could  feel  that  the  old 
woman  next  to  her  was  trembling  all  over. 
Thurston  announced: 

"  Brother  Crashaw  will  now  deliver  an  address." 
Brother  Crashaw,  his  head  still  lowered,  very  slowly  got  up  from 
his  seat.  He  moved  as  though  it  were  only  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty and  power  of  self-will  that  his  reluctant  body  could  be  com- 
pelled into  action.  He  crept  rather  than  walked  from  his  chair 
to  the  reading-desk,  then  very  very  painfully  climbed  on  to  the 
high  platform.  Maggie,  watching  him,  remembered  that  earlier 
time  when  he  had  climbed  into  just  such  another  desk.  She  re- 
membered also  that  day  at  her  aunts'  house  when  he  had  flirted 


THE  REVIVAL  419 

with  Caroline  and  shown  himself  quite  another  Brother  Crashaw. 
He  had  aged  greatly  since  then.  He  seemed  now  to  be  scarcely  a 
man  at  all.  Then  suddenly,  with  a  jerk,  as  though  a  string  had 
been  pulled  from  behind,  he  raised  his  face  and  looked  at  them  all. 
Yes,  that  was  alive.  Monkey's  mask  you  might  call  it,  but  the 
eyes  behind  the  yellow  lids  flamed  and  blazed.  No  exaggeration 
those  words.  A  veritable  fire  burned  there,  a  fire,  it  might  be,  of 
mere  physical  irritation  and  savage  exasperation  at  the  too-rapid 
crumbling  of  the  wilfully  disobedient  body,  a  glory,  perhaps,  of 
obstinate  pride  and  conceit,  a  fire  of  superstition  and  crass  igno- 
rance, but  a  fire  to  be  doubted  of  no  man  who  looked  upon  it. 

When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  harsher,  angrier,  more  insulting 
than  it  had  been  before.  He  spoke,  too,  in  a  hurry,  tumbling  his 
words  one  upon  another  as  though  he  were  afraid  that  he  had 
little  mortal  time  left  to  him  and  must  make  the  most  of  what 
he  had  got. 

From  the  first  he  was  angry,  rating  the  men  of  Skeaton  as  they 
had  never  been  rated  before.  And  they  liked  it.  They  even  revelled 
in  it;  it  did  them  no  harm  and  at  the  same  time  tickled  their 
skins.  Sometimes  a  preacher  at  the  Methodist  Chapel  had  rated 
them,  but  how  mild  and  halting  a  scolding  compared  with  the  fury 
of  this  little  man.  As  he  continued  they  settled  into  their  seats 
with  the  conviction  that  this  was  the  best  free  show  that  they  had 
ever  enjoyed  in  all  their  lives.  They  had  been  afraid  at  first  that 
it  would  not  keep  up  its  interest.  They  had  agreed  with  one  an- 
other that  they  would  go  in  "just  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  see 
what  it  was  like."  Now  they  were  willing  that  it  should  continue 
all  night. 

"  What  came  ye  out  for  to  see  ? "  he  screamed  at  them.  "  Came 
out  to  see  ?  Ye  didn't  come  out  at  all.  None  of  you.  That's  what 
I've  come  to  tell  you.  For  years  you've  been  leading  your  lazy, 
idle,  self-indulgent  lives,  eating  and  drinking,  sleeping,  fornicat- 
ing, lying  with  your  neighbours'  wives,  buying  and  selling,  living 
like  hogs  and  swine.  And  is  it  for  want  of  your  being  told?  Not 
a  bit  of  it.  You  are  warned  again  and  again  and  again.  Every 
day  gives  you  signs  and  wonders  had  you  got  eyes  to  see  them 
and  you  will  not  see.  Well,  be  it  on  your  own  heads.  Why  should 
I  care  for  your  miserable,  shrivelled-up,  parched  little  souls  ?  Why 
should  I  care  when  I  watch  you  all,  with  your  hanging  stomachs 
and  your  double  chins,  marching  straight  into  such  a  hell  as 
you've  never  conceived  of.  I  know  what's  coming  to  you.  I  know 
what's  in  store  for  those  well-filled  stomachs  of  yours.  I  can  see 
you  writhing  and  screaming  and  wailing,  '  Why  didn't  somebody 


'420  THE  CAPTIVES 

tell  us?  Why  didn't  somebody  tell  us?'  Somebody  has  told  you. 
Somebody's  telling  you  now.  And  will  you  listen  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
You'll  have  heard  the  music  to-night,  the  drums  and  the  trumpets, 
you'll  have  joined  in  the  singing,  and  to-night  you'll  go  back  and 
tell  your  friends :  '  Yes,  we  had  a  fine  evening.  You  ought  to  go. 
It's  worth  while  and  costs  you  nothing.'  And  to-morrow  you  will 
have  forgotten  everything.  But  I  tell  you  that  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  this  building  stands  in  as  desperate  peril  as  though  his 
house  was  on  fire  over  his  head  and  there  was  no  way  out." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  to  get  breath,  leaning  forward  over 
the  desk  and  panting.  Over  the  building  there  was  a  great  silence. 
Maggie  was  stirred  beyond  any  earlier  experience.  %She  did  not 
know  whether  he  were  charlatan  or  no.  She  did  not  care.  She 
had  lived  for  more  than  two  years  in  Skeaton,  where  everything 
and  every  one  was  dead.  Now  here  was  life.  The  evidence  of  it 
reassured  her,  whispering  to  her  that  Martin  still  lived,  that  he 
could  be  found,  even  that  he  was  coming  to  her.  Her  nervous 
excitement  increased.  The  emotion  of  the  people  around  her,  the 
bands,  the  singing,  all  seemed  to  cry  to  her,  "  He  is  coming !  He 
is  coming!  He  is  coming!"  .  .  .  but  it  was  Martin  now  and 
not  God. 

Old  Crashaw,  having  recovered  his  breath,  went  on :  he  continued 
for  some  time  to  abuse  them  all,  screaming  and  beating  the  wooden 
desk  with  his  fists — then  suddenly  he  changed,  his  voice  softened, 
his  eyes  were  milder,  there  was  something  wistful  and  pathetic  in 
his  old  ugly  yellow  face. 

"  I  know  that  you  came  in  here  to-night,  all  of  you,  just  as  you 
might  into  a  picture-house  or  a  theatre.  Entrance  free.  Well, 
then,  why  not?  Had  we  charged  half-a-crown  there  wouldn't  have 
been  one  of  you.  Half-a-crown  and  the  most  important  thing  in 
life.  I  say  the  most  important — I  say  the  only  important  thing  in 
life.  A  man's  soul,  its  history  and  growth.  What  do  you  know 
of  the  soul,  you  ask  me?  How  do  you  know  there  is  one?  Well, 
I  can  only  tell  you  my  news.  If  a  man  comes  into  your  town  and 
tells  you  that  there  is  an  army  marching  down  upon  it  to  destroy 
it  he  may  be  true  or  he  may  not.  If  he  is  true  then,  when  you 
don't  listen  to  him  you  are  doomed.  If  you  do  listen  the  prepa- 
ration to  meet  that  army  will  at  any  rate  do  you  no  harm  even 
though  the  army  doesn't  exist. 

"I  tell  you  that  the  Soul  exists,  that  God  exists,  and  that  one 
day  God  and  the  Soul  will  meet.  You  say  that  hasn't  been  proved, 
and  until  it  is  proved  you  will  spend  your  time  over  other  things 
that  you  know  to  be  true.    Try  it  at  least,  give  it  a  chance.    Why 


THE  REVIVAL  421 

not?  You  give  other  things  a  chance,  marriage,  doctors,  trades, 
amusements.  Why  not  the  Soul?  Don't  listen  to  any  one  else's 
definition  of  religion.  Don't  believe  in  it.  Make  your  own.  Find 
out  for  yourself.  My  children,  I  am  an  old  man,  I  am  shortly  to 
die.  If  I  have  scolded  forgive  me.  Let  me  leave  with  you  my 
blessing,  and  my  earnest  prayer  that  you  will  not  pass  by  God  on 
the  other  side.  The  day  will  come  when  you  cannot  pass  Him  by. 
Meet  Him  first  of  your  own  accord  and  then  when  that  other  day 
comes  He  will  know  you  as  a  friend.  ..." 

The  old  man's  voice  faltered,  failed,  stopped.  He  himself  seemed 
to  be  deeply  affected.  Was  it  acting?  Maggie  could  not  tell.  At 
any  rate  he  was  old  and  ill  and  very  shortly  to  die.  .    .    . 

The  woman  next  her  was  crying  rubbing  the  knuckles  of  her 
shabby  old  gloves  in  her  eyes,  the  bugles  on  her  bonnet  shaking 
like  live  things. 

She  snuffled  through  her  nose  t6  Maggie  "Beautiful — beautiful 
— I  'aven't  'eard  such  preaching  since  I  don't  know  when." 

Thurston  again  rose. 

"  A  solo  will  now  be  sung,"  he  said.  "  After  the  singing  of  the 
solo  there  will  be  a  prayer  offered,  then  a  procession,  headed  by 
the  choir,  will  be  formed  to  march,  with  lanterns,  through  the  town, 
as  a  witness  to  the  glory  of  God.  It  is  hoped  that  those  of  the 
congregation  who  have  received  comfort  and  help  during  this  serv- 
ice will  join  in  the  procession.  There  will  be  a  collection  for  the 
expenses  of  the  Mission  at  the  door." 

Maggie  watching  him  wondered.  Of  what  was  he  thinking? 
Was  there  any  truth  in  him?  Had  he,  perhaps,  behind  the  sham 
display  and  advertisement  that  he  had  been  building  felt  some- 
thing stirring?  Was  he  conscious,  against  his  own  will,  of  his 
falsehood?  Had  he,  while  building  only  his  own  success,  made  a 
discovery?  She  looked  at  him.  The  dramatic  mask  hid  him  from 
her.    She  could  not  tell  what  he  was. 

The  soprano,  who  had  sung  a  verse  of  the  hymn  earlier  in  the 
evening,  now  undertook  "  Hear  my  Prayer."  Very  beautifully  she 
sang  it. 

"Hear  my  prayer, 
Oh,  God,  incline  Thine  ear, 
Thyself  from  my  distresses 
do  not  hide.  ..." 

The  voice  rose,  soaring  through  the  building  to  meet  the  silver 
stars  and  the  naked  cherubs  on  the  ceiling. 


422  THE  CAPTIVES 

"The  enemy  shouteth  .    .   . 
The  enemy  shouteth  ..." 

Skeaton  sat  enraptured.    Women  let  the  tears  stream  down  their 
faces,  men  blew  their  noses. 
Once  again  the  voice  arose. 

"  Hear  my  prayer, 
Oh,  God,  incline  Thine  ear.  ..." 

It  was  Maggie's  voice,  Maggie's  cry.  From  the  very  heart  of  the 
charlatanism  she  cried  out,  appealing  to  a  God  who  might  exist 
or  no,  she  could  not  tell,  but  who  seemed  now  to  be  leading  her  by 
the  hand.  She  saw  Aunt  Anne  at  St.  Dreot's  whispering  "  The 
Lord  is  my  Shepherd.    He  shall  lead  me.   ..." 

In  a  dream  she  shared  in  the  rest  of  the  ceremony.  In  a  dream 
she  passed  with  the  others  out  of  the  building.  The  sea  air  blew 
about  her;  down  the  promenade  she  could  see  the  people,  she  could 
see  the  silver  stars  in  the  sky,  the  faint  orange  light  of  the  lanterns, 
the  dim  stretch  of  the  sand,  and  then  the  grey  sea.  She  heard  the 
splash  and  withdrawal  of  the  tide,  the  murmur  of  many  voices,  the 
singing  of  the  distant  hymn,  the  blare  of  the  trumpet. 

Strange  and  mysterious,  the  wind  blowing  through  it  all  like  a 
promise  of  beauty  and  splendour  to  come.  .    .    . 

She  turned  in  the  starlit  dark,  separated  herself  from  the  crowd, 
and  hurried  home. 

In  the  hall  on  the  table  under  the  lamp  she  saw  a  letter.  She 
saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  her  and  that  the  writing  was  Amy 
Warlock's.  Before  she  picked  it  up  she  stood  there  listening. 
The  house  was  very  still.  Grace  and  Paul  had  probably  begun 
supper.    She  picked  up  the  letter  and  went  up  to  her  bedroom. 

As  though  she  were  scanning  something  that  she  had  already 
seen,  she  read: 

I  made  you  a  promise  and  I  will  now  fulfil  it. 

My  brother,  Martin,  arrived  in  London  three  days  ago.  He  is 
staying  at  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross. 

I  have  seen  him  but  he  has  told  me  that  he  does  not  wish  to  see 
me  again.  He  is  very  ill;  his  heart  is  bad  and  his  lungs  are 
affected.  He  has  also  spent  all  his  money.  I  mentioned  your  name 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  interested.  I  think  it  fair  to  tell 
you  this  lest  you  should  have  a  fruitless  journey.  I  have  now  kept 
my  promise  to  you,  unwisely  perhaps.  Amy  Warlock. 


THE  REVIVAL  423 

Maggie  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  considered.  There  was  a  train 
at  10.30  reaching  London  about  midnight.  She  could  just  catch 
it  if  she  were  quick.  She  found  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper 
and  wrote : 

Dear  Paul — I  have  to  go  to  London  suddenly  on  very  urgent 
business.    I  will  write  to  you  from  there.    Good-bye.         Maggie. 

She  propped  this  up  against  the  looking-glass.  She  put  a  few 
things,  including  the  box  with  Martin's  letters  and  the  ring  into  a 
little  bag,  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  went  downstairs.  She 
waited  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  but  there  was  no  sound  anywhere. 

She  went  out  down  the  dark  drive. 

As  she  passed  along  the  lonely  road  she  heard  the  gate,  scream- 
ing faintly,  behind  her. 


PART  IV 
THE  JOURNEY  HOME  AGAIN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   DARK   BOOM 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  Maggie  was  turned  out  on  to  the 
long  grim  platform  of  the  London  station.  On  that  other 
London  arrival  of  hers  the  terminus  had  been  a  boiling  cauldron 
of  roar  and  rattle.  Now  everything  was  dead  and  asleep.  No 
trains  moved;  they  slept,  ancient  monsters,  chained  down  with 
dirt  and  fog.  Two  or  three  porters  crept  slothfully  as  though  hyp- 
notised. The  face  of  the  great  clock,  golden  in  the  dusk,  domi- 
nated, like  a  heathen  god,  the  scene.  Maggie  asked  a  porter  the 
way  to  the  Station  Hotel.  He  showed  her;  she  climbed  stairs, 
pushed  back  swing  doors,  trod  oil-clothed  passages,  and  arrived  at 
a  tired  young  woman  who  told  her  that  she  could  have  a  room. 

Arrived  there,  herself  somnambulistic,  she  flung  off  her  clothes, 
crept  into  bed,  and  was  instantly  asleep. 

Next  morning  she  kept  to  her  room;  she  went  down  the  long 
dusty  stairs  before  one  o'clock  because  she  was  hungry,  and  she 
discovered  the  restaurant  and  had  a  meal  there;  but  all  the  time 
she  was  expecting  Martin  to  appear.  Every  step  seemed  to  be  his, 
every  voice  to  have  an  echo  of  his  tones.  Then  in  the  dusky  after- 
noon she  decided  that  she  would  be  cowardly  no  longer.  She 
started  off  on  her  search  for  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross. 

She  searched  through  a  strange  blue  opaque  light  which  always 
afterwards  she  recollected  as  accompanying  her  with  mystery,  as 
though  it  followed  her  about  deliberately  veiling  her  from  the  rest 
of  the  world.  She  felt  different  from  them  all;  she  found  an 
omnibus  that  was  going  to  King's  Cross,  but  when  she  was  inside 
it  and  looked  at  the  people  around  her  she  felt  of  them  all  that  they 
had  no  reality  beside  the  intensity  of  her  own  search.  She,  hot  like 
a  fiery  coal,  existed  in  a  land  of  filmy  ghosts.  She  repeated  to 
herself  over  and  over,  "  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross." 

She  got  out  opposite  the  huge  station  and  looked  about  her.  She 
saw  a  policeman  and  went  across  to  him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Lynton  Street  is,  please  ? "  she  asked 
him. 

He  smiled.  "  Yes,  miss.  Down  on  your  right,  then  first  to  your 
right  again." 

She  thanked  him  and  wanted  for  a  silly  moment  to  remain  with 

427 


428  THE  CAPTIVES 

him.  She  wanted  to  stand  there  where  she  was,  on  the  island, 
she  couldn't  go  back,  she  was  afraid  to  go  forward.  Then  the 
moment  left  her  and  she  moved  on.  When  she  saw  Lynton  Street 
written  up  her  heart  gave  a  strange  little  whirr  and  then  tightened 
within  herself,  but  she  marched  on  and  found  13a.  A  dirty  house, 
pots  with  ferns  in  the  two  grimy  windows,  and  the  walls  streaky 
with  white  stains  against  the  grey.  The  door  was  ajar  and,  push- 
ing it  a  little,  she  saw  a  servant-girl  on  her  knees  scrubbing  the 
floor.    At  the  noise  of  her  step  the  girl  looked  up. 

"Is  Mr.  Warlock  here?"  Maggie  asked,  but  the  words  were 
choked  in  her  throat. 

"  Wot  d'ye  sye  ?  "  the  girl  asked. 

Maggie  repeated  her  question. 

"  Yes — 'e's  upstairs.  Always  is.  Fust  floor,  second  door  on  yer 
left." 

Maggie  went  up.  She  found  the  door.  She  knocked.  There 
was  no  answer.  She  pushed  the  door,  peered  through  and  looked  in. 
She  saw  a  room  with  a  dirty  grimy  window,  a  broken  faded  red 
sofa,  a  deal  table.    No  one  there. 

She  entered  and  stood  listening.  A  door  beyond  her  opened  and 
a  man  came  in.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  was  Martin.  Her 
thoughts  followed  one  another  in  strange  flurried  inconsequence. 
Yes,  it  was  Martin.  He  was  fatter  than  he  had  been — fat  and  ill. 
Very  ill.  His  face  was  pale,  his  hair,  thinner  than  before,  un- 
brushed.  He  was  wearing  an  old  dirty  blue  suit  with  a  coat  that 
buttoned  over  the  waistcoat  like  a  seaman's  jacket.  Yes,  he  was 
ill  and  fat  and  unkempt,  but  it  was  Martin.  At  that  reiterated 
assurance  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  she  seemed  to  sink  into  a  mar- 
vellous certain  tranquillity — so  certain  that  she  shed,  as  it  were 
with  a  gesture,  all  the  unhappiness  and  doubt  and  desolation  with 
which  the  last  years  had  burdened  her. 

She  had  "  touched "  Martin  again,  and  v/ith  that  "  touch "  she 
was  safe.  It  did  not  matter  how  he  treated  her  nor  whether  he 
wanted  her.  She  was  sane  and  happy  and  whole  again  as  she  had 
not  been  since  he  left  her. 

Meanwhile  he  looked  at  her  across  the  dark  room,  frowning. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked.    "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

The  sound  of  his  voice  moved  her  passionately.  For  how  long 
she  had  ached  and  yearned  for  it!  He  spoke  more  huskily,  with  a 
thicker  tone  than  he  had  done,  but  it  was  the  same  voice,  rough  a 
little  and  slow. 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Martin  ? "  she  said,  laughing  for  sheer 
happiness.    She  saw  before  she  spoke  that  he  had  recognised  her. 


THE  DARK  ROOM  429 

He  said  nothing,  staring  at  her  across  the  table;  and  she,  held  by 
some  safe  instinct,  did  not  move  from  where  she  was. 

At  last  he  said: 

"Well.   .    .    .  What  do  you  want?" 

"  Oh,  Martin",  don't  you  recognise  me  ?    I'm  Maggie." 

He  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  know.  You  mustn't  come  here,  though. 
We've  nothing  to  say  to  one  another  nowadays — no,  nothing."  He 
didn't  look  at  her ;  his  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  grimy  window. 

She  had  an  astonishing  sense  of  her  possession  of  him.  She 
laughed  and  came  close  to  the  table. 

"  I'm  not  going  away,  Martin  .  .  .  not  until  we've  had  a  talk. 
Nothing  can  make  me.    So  there ! " 

He  was  looking  at  her  again. 

"  Why,  you've  cut  your  hair ! "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

Then  he  turned  roughly  right  round  upon  her  as  though  he 
meant  to  end  the  matter  once  and  for  all. 

"  Look  here !   .    .    .  I  do  mean  what  I  say "    He  was  cut  off 

then  by  a  fit  of  coughing.  He  leant  back  against  the  wall  and 
fought  with  it,  his  hand  against  his  chest.  She  made  no  move- 
ment and  said  no  word  while  the  attack  lasted. 

He  gasped,  recovering  his  breath,  then,  speaking  in  a  voice  lower 
than  before :  "  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  don't  want  you.  I  don't  want 
any  one.  There's  nothing  for  us  to  say  to  one  another.  It's  only 
waste  of  time." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  That's  your  side  of  the  question. 
There's  also  mine.  Once  before  you  had  your  own  way  and  I  was 
very  miserable  about  it.  Now  it's  my  turn.  I'm  going  to  stay 
here  until  we've  talked." 

He  turned,  his  face  working  angrily,  upon  her. 

"You  can't  stay  here.  It's  impossible.  What  do  you  do  it  for 
when  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  you?  First  my  sister  .  .  .  then 
you  .  .  .  come  here  spying.  Well,  now  you've  seen  what  it's  like, 
haven't  you?  Very  jolly,  isn't  it?  Very  handsome?  You'd  better 
go  away  again,  then.    You've  seen  all  you've  wanted  to." 

"  I'm  not  going  away,"  repeated  Maggie.  "  I  didn't  come  to  spy. 
You  know  that.  Of  course  you  can  turn  me  out,  but  you'll  have 
to  use  force." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't,"  he  answered.    "  There  are  other  ways." 

He  disappeared  into  the  other  room.  A  moment  later  he  re- 
turned; he  was  wearing  a  soft  black  hat  and  a  shabby  grey  over- 
coat. 

"You'll  get  tired  of  waiting,  I  expect,"  he  said,  and,  without 


430  THE  CAPTIVES 

looking  at  her  but  just  touching  her  arm  as  he  brushed  past  her, 
he  left  the  room.  She  heard  him  descend  the  stairs.  Then  the 
street-door  closed. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  shabby  red  sofa  and  looked  about  her. 
What  a  horrible  room!  Its  darkness  was  tainted  with  a  creeping 
coldness  that  seemed  to  steal  in  wavering  gusts  from  wall  to  wall. 
The  carpet  was  faded  to  a  nondescript  colour  and  was  gashed  into 
torn  strips  near  the  fireplace.  No  pictures  were  on  the  walls  from 
which  the  wall-paper  was  peeling.  He  had  done  nothing  whatever 
to  make  it  more  habitable. 

He  must  have  been  staying  there  for  several  weeks,  and  yet 
there  were  no  signs  of  any  personal  belongings.  Nothing  of  him- 
self to  be  soon!  Nothing!  It  was  as  though  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  spirit  he  had  said  that  he  would  not  touch  such  a  spot  save, 
of  necessity,  with  his  body.  It  should  remain,  so  far  as  he  might 
go,  for  ever  tenantless. 

She  felt  that.  She  seemed  to  be  now  marvellously  perceptive. 
Until  an  hour  ago  she  had  been  lost,  ostracised;  now  she  was  at 
home  again,  clear  in  purpose,  afraid  of  no  one  and  of  nothing. 
Strangely,  although  his  sickness  both  of  body  and  soul  touched 
her  to  the  very  depths  of  her  being,  her  predominant  sensation  was 
of  happiness.  She  had  found  him  again !  Oh,  she  had  found  him 
again !  Nothing,  in  this  world  or  the  next,  counted  in  comparison 
with  that.  If  she  were  close  to  him  she  would  make  him  well,  she 
would  make  him  rich,  she  would  make  him  happy.  Where  he  had 
been,  what  he  had  done,  mattered  nothing.  Where  she  had  been, 
what  she  had  done,  nothing.  Nothing  in  their  two  lives  counted 
but  their  meeting  again,  and  she  who  had  been  always  so  shy 
and  so  diffident  felt  no  doubt  at  all  about  his  returning  to  her. 
There  would  be  a  fight.  As  she  looked  around  the  gradually  dark- 
ening room  she  realised  that.  It  might  be  a  long  fight  and  a  diffi- 
cult one,  but  that  she  would  win  she  had  no  doubt.  It  had  been 
preordained  that  she  should  win.  No  one  on  this  earth  or  above  it 
could  beat  her. 

Gradually  she  became  more  practical.  Slowly  she  formed  her 
plans.  First,  what  had  Martin  done?  Perhaps  he  had  told  the 
woman  of  the  house  that  she,  Maggie,  was  to  be  turned  out,  did 
she  not,  of  herself,  go  away.  No,  Martin  would  not  do  that. 
Maggie  knew  quite  confidently  that  he  would  never  allow  any  one 
to  insult  her.  Perhaps  Martin  would  not  come  back  at  all.  Per- 
haps his  hat  and  his  coat  were  his  only  possessions.  That  was 
a  terrible  thought!  Had  he  gone,  leaving  no  trace,  how  would 
she  ever  find  him  again?    She  remembered  then  that  he  had  gone 


THE  DARK  ROOM  431 

straight  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house.  He  had  not  spoken  to 
the  landlady.  That  did  not  look  like  a  permanent  departure.  But 
she  would  make  certain. 

She  pushed  open  the  other  door  and  peeped  into  the  further 
room.  She  saw  a  dirty  unmade  bed,  a  tin  washhand  stand,  and 
an  open  carpet-bag  filled  with  soiled  linen.  No,  he  would  come 
back. 

She  sat  there  thinking  out  her  plans.  She  was  suddenly  clear, 
determined,  resourceful,  all  the  things  that  she  had  never  been  in 
her  life  before.  First  she  must  see  the  landlady;  next  she  must 
go  to  the  shops — but  suppose  he  should  return  while  she  was  there, 
pack  his  bag  and  leave  for  ever  ?  She  must  risk  that.  She  thought 
that  he  would  not  return  at  once  because  he  would  want,  as  he 
said,  "  to  tire  her  out."  "  To  tire  her  out !"  She  laughed  at  that. 
She  looked  about  the  room  and  decided  how  she  would  improve 
it.  She  nodded  to  herself.  Yes,  and  the  bedroom  too.  All  this 
time  she  was  so  happy  that  she  could  scarcely  prevent  herself  from 
singing  aloud. 

She  went  out,  down  the  dark  stairs,  and  found  the  maid,  under  a 
swinging  candle-flame,  still  scrubbing.  How  strange  that  in  that 
short  space  of  time,  when  the  whole  of  life  had  altered  for  her, 
that  girl  had  been  on  her  knees  scrubbing! 

"  Could  you  tell  me,  please,"  she  asked,  "  whether  I  could  see 
somebody  who  is  in  charge  of  this  house — the  landlady  or " 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ? "  said  a  voice  behind  her. 

She  turned  to  find  a  short  stout  woman  in  voluminous  black — 
black  bonnet,  black  cape,  black  gloves — watching  her  with  sharp 
bright  eyes. 

"  Are  you  the  landlady  ? "  Maggie  asked. 

"  I  ham,"  said  the  woman.    "  Mrs.  Brandon — ma'am." 

The  servant-girl  had  suspended  operations,  kneeling  up  and 
watching  with  open  mouth  developments. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Maggie.    "  How  do  you  do? " 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ? "  said  Mrs.  Brandon. 

"  The  point  is  just  this,"  said  Maggie,  speaking  rather  fast  as 
though  she  were  confused,  which  she  was  not.  "  Mr.  Warlock  is  a 
very  old  friend  of  mine  and  I'm  afraid  he's  very  ill  indeed.  He's 
very  ill  and  there's  nobody  to  look  after  him.  What  I  was  wonder- 
ing was  whether  there  was  a  bedroom  in  your  house  that  I  could 
have — so  that  I  could  look  after  him,  you  see,  and  get  him  any- 
thing he  wants." 

Mrs.  Brandon  overlooked  Maggie  from  head  to  foot — very  slowly 
she  did  it,  her  eyes  passing  over  the  rather  shabby  black  hat,  the 


432  THE  CAPTIVES 

short  hair,  the  plain  black  dress,  the  shoes  worn  and  soiled.  She 
also  looked  at  Maggie's  wedding-ring. 

"  Well,  Mrs. "  she  began. 

"  Mrs.  Trenchard  is  my  name,"  said  Maggie,  blushing  in  spite 
of  herself  at  the  long  scrutiny. 

"  I  'ope  you're  not  reproaching  anybody  with  neglect  of  the 
gentleman."  She  had  an  action,  as  she  talked,  of  flinging  a  very 
seedy-looking  black  boa  back  across  her  neck  vindictively.  "  Wot 
I  mean  to  say  is  that  gentleman  lodgers  must  take  their  chance 
and  e's  two  weeks  overdue  with  'is  rent  as  it  is  .  .  .  but  of  course 
I'm  not  saying  I  couldn't  oblige.  'E's  a  nice  gentleman  too, 
although  not  talkative  so  to  speak,  but  if  it  would  give  'im  'appi- 
ness  to  'ave  a  lady  friend  close  at  'and  as  you  might  say,  why  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  one  to  stand  in  'is  way.  '  Live  and  let  live/ 
'as  always  been  my  motter,  and  a  very  good  one  too." 

She  said  all  this  very  slowly,  with  a  good  many  significant 
pauses.  Maggie,  however,  felt  nothing  but  happiness  at  the  pros- 
pect of  getting  her  way.  She  had  gone  far  beyond  all  personal 
sensations  of  shame  or  fear  or  hesitation. 

"  Would  you  show  me  the  room,  please  ? "  she  asked. 

They  pushed  past  the  servant-girl,  whose  eyes  followed  them  up 
the  stairs  with  hungry  curiosity. 

They  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Brandon  displayed  a 
dark  sulky  little  room  with  damp  of  the  tomb  clinging  to  its 
wall. 

"  Ten  bob  a  week,"  she  said.  She  sunk  her  voice  to  a  confidential 
whisper.  "  The  best  of  this  'ouse  is  that  you  can  do  what  you  like. 
No  one  minds  and  no  one  sees.  '  Them  as  lives  in  glass  'ouses.' 
That's  what  I  say." 

"  I'll  take  it,"  said  Maggie. 

"You'll  be  wanting  a  key,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  sud- 
denly very  friendly.  "  To  let  yerself  in  an'  out  at  nights.  I'll 
fetch  yer  one." 

She  did.    Maggie  thanked  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  have  such  a  thing  as  a  small 
basket  you  could  lend  me.  I'm  going  out  to  buy  one  or  two 
necessaries." 

"  Certingly,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  all  smiles.  "  Certingly,  and 
anythink  else  you'll  be  needing.     All  you've  got  to  do  is  ter  ask." 

This  settled,  Maggie  departed  on  her  shopping  expedition.  She 
was  still  driven  by  a  curious  clarity  and  decision  as  to  what  she 
wanted  to  do.  She  felt  as  though  she  could  conquer  the  world 
to-day  and  then  parcel  it  out  equitably  and  with  success  amongst 


THE  DARK  ROOM  433 

the  greedy  kings  of  the  earth.  What  were  kings  to  her  now  that 
she  had  found  Martin  ?    Less  than  the  dust.  .    .   . 

Lynton  Street  offered  her  nothing  but  dirty  and  grime-stained 
windows,  but  she  found  her  way  into  King  Edward  Street,  and  here 
there  were  many  shops.  She  had  not  very  much  money  actually 
upon  her,  and  the  remainder  of  her  precious  three  hundred  was 
locked  up  in  a  bank  in  Skeaton,  but  it  was  a  bank  that  had,  she 
knew,  branches  in  London.  She  looked  in  her  purse  and  found  that 
she  had  three  pounds,  twelve  shillings  and  sixpence.  Martin  must 
have  his  meals  upon  something  other  than  paper,  so  the  probability 
was  that  there  was  crockery  of  a  kind  in  his  room — or  perhaps  Mrs. 
Brandon  supplied  it.  Nevertheless  Maggie's  first  purchases  were 
a  blue  teapot,  two  blue  plates,  and  two  blue  cups  and  saucers. 

As  to  food  she  must  get  something  that  could  be  cooked  easily 
on  his  fire.  She  bought  three  of  the  freshest  possible  eggs,  half  a 
dozen  sausages,  a  loaf  of  bread,  half  a  pound  of  butter,  two  pots 
of  jam,  one  pot  of  marmalade,  some  apples,  a  pound  of  tea,  a 
pound  of  sugar. 

"  This  will  do  as  a  start,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  was  just  about  to  turn  into  Lynton  Street  when  she  stopped 
at  a  flower  shop.  In  the  window,  smiling  at  her  most  fragrantly 
under  the  gas-light  was  a  white  hyacinth  in  a  blue  pot.  It  seemed 
to  speak  to  her  with  the  same  significance  as  once  the  ring  with 
the  three  pearls ;  as  though  it  said :  "  You've  got  to  use  me.  I'm 
a  link  in  the  chain." 

She  went  in  and  asked  its  price;  not  very  much,  considering  the 
splendour  of  the  blue  pot.  She  bought  it.  She  was  glad  that  13a 
was  not  far,  because  now  the  basket  and  the  flower  weighed  heavily 
upon  her. 

She  climbed  the  stairs  to  Martin's  room  with  beating  heart. 
Suppose  he  had  returned  and  was  there  and  would  not  let  her  in? 
Or  suppose,  worse  than  that,  that  he  had  returned,  packed  his  bag 
and  gone  away  again?  Her  heart  was  beating  so  terribly  when 
at  last  she  had  arrived  outside  the  door  that  she  had  to  put  down 
the  hyacinth  and  the  basket  and  stand  for  a  minute  there,  panting. 

She  pushed  back  the  door;  the  room  was  lit  by  the  reflection 
from  a  lamp  in  a  window  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road;  this 
flickered  with  a  pale  uncertain  glow  across  the  floor.  He  was  not 
here.  She  opened  the  bedroom  door.  He  had  not  packed  his 
bag.  She  sighed  with  relief.  She  found  a  bell  and  pressed  it. 
To  her  great  surprise  the  scrubbing  maid  almost  instantly  pre- 
sented herself;  curiosity  had  undoubtedly  hastened  her  steps. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked  Maggie,  smiling. 


434  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  Emily,"  said  the  girl. 

"  The  first  thing  I  want  is  a  box  of  matches,"  said  Maggie. 
"You'll  light  the  gas  for  me,  won't  you.  The  truth  is,  I'm  not 
quite  tall  enough  to  reach  it." 

Emily  lit  the  gas. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Maggie.  u  I  must  have  a  fire. 
That's  the  next  thing.  This  cold  room  must  have  been  a  bad  thing 
for  Mr.  Warlock  with  his  cough." 

"Yes,  'e  'as  got  a  corf,"  said  Emily,  watching  Maggie  with  all 
her  eyes. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I  could  have  a  fire  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

Emily  considered. 

"  I'll  ask  the  missus,"  she  said;  "  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

She  returned  soon  with  coal,  wood  and  newspaper.  She  also 
informed  Maggie  that  Mrs.  Brandon  would  like  to  have  a  "little 
in  advance  if  convenient,  that  being  the  custom." 

Maggie  delivered  up  ten  and  sixpence  and  was  left  with  exactly 
two  shillings  in  her  pocket.  But  how  beautiful  the  room  appeared ! 
Emily,  whose  ugly  bony  countenance  now  wore  a  look  of  excited 
breathlessness  as  though  she  were  playing  a  new  kind  of  game, 
discovered  a  piece  of  dark  sad  cloth  somewhere  in  the  lower  region 
and  this  was  pinned  up  over  the  window.  The  fire  was  soon  blaz- 
ing away  as  though  the  fireplace  rejoiced  to  have  a  chance  of  being 
warm  once  more.  A  shabby  but  clean  table-cloth  was  discovered 
and  placed  upon  the  table,  and  in  the  middle  of  this  the  hyacinth 
was  triumphantly  stationed. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what  would  be  nice,"  said  Maggie,  also  by  this 
time  breathless,  "  and  that's  a  lamp.  This  gas  isn't  very  pleasant, 
is  it,  and  it  does  make  such  a  noise." 

"  It  does  make  a  noise,"  said  Emily,  looking  at  the  gas  as  though 
she  were  seeing  it  for  the  first  time. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  there's  a  lamp  somewhere  ? " 

Emily  licked  her  finger. 

"Ill  ask  the  missus,"  she  said  and  disappeared.  Soon  she  re- 
turned with  a  lamp,  its  glories  hidden  beneath  a  bright  pink  paper 
shade. 

Maggie  removed  the  paper  shade,  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table, 
then  the  blue  plates,  the  blue  cups  and  saucers,  the  blue  teapot. 

A  shrill  voice  was  heard  calling  for  Emily.  Maggie  had  then  her 
kingdom  to  herself. 

She  stood  there,  waiting  and  listening.  The  approaching  inter- 
view must  have  seemed  to  her  the  climax  of  her  whole  life.  She 
stood,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  going  to  the  table,  mov- 


THE  DARK  ROOM  435 

ing  the  plates,  then  moving  them  hack  again.  Perhaps  he  would 
not  return  at  all  that  night,  perhaps  not  until  midnight  or  later. 
He  might  be  drunk,  he  might  be  violent.  She  did  not  care.  It  was 
enough  for  her  that  he  should  be  there. 

"  Oh  I  do  wish  he'd  come/'  she  whispered  aloud. 

She  had  looked  at  her  watch  and  seen  that  it  was  just  eight 
o'clock  when  she  heard  a  step  on  the  stair.  She  had  already  bor- 
rowed from  Emily  a  frying-pan.  Quickly  she  put  the  sausages 
into  it,  placed  them  on  the  fire  and  then  stood  over  them. 

The  door  opened.  She  knew  who  it  was  because  she  heard  him 
start  suddenly  with  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise.  She  turned 
and  looked  at  him.  Her  first  thought  was  that  he  seemed  des- 
perately weary,  weary  with  a  fatigue  not  only  physical.  His  whole 
bearing  was  that  of  a  man  beaten,  defeated,  raging,  it  might  be, 
with  the  consciousness  of  his  defeat  but  beyond  all  hope  of  aveng- 
ing it.  Her  pity  for  him  made  her  tremble  but,  with  that,  she 
realised  that  the  worst  thing  that  she  could  do  was  to  show  pity. 
What  had  he  expected?  To  find  her  gone?  To  find  her  still  sit- 
ting defiantly  where  he  had  left  her?  To  see  her  crying,  perhaps 
on  her  knees  before  him,  beseeching  him  ?    Anything  but  not  this. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  astonished  and  was  resolved  not  to  let 
her  know  it. 

He  moved  past  her  without  a  word,  and  went  into  the  other 
room.  She  said  nothing,  but  bent  over  the  sausages.  They  were 
sizzling  and  flung  out  a  splendid  smell. 

He  came  back  without  his  hat  and  coat.  He  stood  by  the  bed- 
room door  and  slowly  looked  round  the  room,  taking  everything  in. 

"  I  thought  you'd  have  gone,"  he  said ;  "  I  warned  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  laughing: 

"  I  haven't,"  she  said.  "  Whatever  happens  afterwards,  Martin, 
we  may  as  well  have  one  meal  together.  I'm  very  hungry.  I 
know  you'll  forgive  my  using  your  room  like  this,  but  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to  a  shop.    So  I  just  brought  the  things  in  here." 

His  eyes  lighted  on  the  hyacinth. 

"  I  know  what  your  game  is,"  he  said  huskily.  "  But  it  isn't 
any  good.    You  may  as  well  chuck  it." 

"  All  right,"  she  said.    "  After  we've  had  a  meal." 

Straightening  herself  up  from  the  heat  of  the  fire  she  had  a 
terrible  temptation  then  to  go  to  him.  It  overwhelmed  her  in  a 
flood;  her  knees  and  hands  trembled.  She  wanted  just  to  touch  his 
arm,  to  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  But  she  knew  that  she 
must  not. 

■  Sit  down  for  a  bit,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  and  let's  have  our 


436  THE  CAPTIVES 

meal.  There's  nothing  terrible  in  that,  Martin.  I've  not  put 
poison  in  your  food  or  anything  and  the  sausages  do  smell  nice." 

To  her  surprise  he  sat  down,  suddenly  collapsing  as  though  he 
were  too  tired  to  stand  any  longer.  He  said  nothing  more.  She 
finished  the  sausages,  put  them  on  the  table,  then  took  a  saucepan 
(also  Emily's  gift),  filled  it  with  water  and  put  in  the  eggs. 

"  Come  on."  she  said  gently,  "  or  the  sausages  will  get  cold." 

He  went  then  to  the  table,  cut  off  some  bread  and  began  to  eat 
ravenously.  Her  heart  felt  a  dim  distant  triumph  when  she  saw 
that  he  was  so  hungry,  but  it  was  too  early  to  feel  triumph  yet. 

She  came  to  the  table  and  began  to  eat,  although  she  felt  no 
hunger. 

*'  You're  married,  aren't  you?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Where's  your  husband  ? " 

"A  place  called  Skeaton." 

"  Well,  you'd  better  get  back  there  to-night " 

"  I'm  staying  in  London  for  a  day  or  two." 

"Where?" 

"  Here.    I've  got  a  bedroom  upstairs." 

"  You  can  do  what  you  damn  well  please,"  he  said.  "  It  doesn't 
matter  to  me.  I'm  going  away  from  here  to-morrow  morning." 
Then,  after  another  pause,  he  said: 

"  What  sort  of  a  man's  your  husband  ? " 

"  A  clergyman,"  she  answered. 

"  A  clergyman  .  .  .  good  Lord !  "  He  laughed  grimly.  "  Still 
religious,  I  see." 

All  this  time  she  was  thinking  how  ill  he  was.  Every  breath 
that  he  drew  seemed  to  hurt  him.  His  eyes  were  dull  and  ex- 
pressionless. He  moved  his  hands,  sometimes,  with  a  groping 
movement  as  though  he  could  not  see.  He  drank  his  tea  thirstily, 
eagerly. 

At  last  he  had  finished.  He  bent  forward,  leaning  on  his  hands, 
looking  her  steadily  in  the  face  for  the  first  time. 

"  It  was  clever  of  you  to  do  this,"  he  said ;  "  damn  clever.  I 
was  hungry,  I  don't  mind  confessing  .  .  .  but  that's  the  last  of 
it.  Do  you  hear?  I  can  look  after  myself.  I  know.  You're 
feeling  sorry  for  me.  Think  I'm  in  a  dirty  room  with  no  one  to 
look  after  me.  Think  I'm  ill.  I  bet  Amy  told  you  I  was  ill.  '  Oh, 
poor  fellow,'  you  thought,  '  I  must  go  and  look  after  him.'  Well, 
I'm  not  a  poor  fellow  and  I  don't  want  looking  after.  I  can 
manage  for  myself  very  nicely.  And  I  don't  want  any  women 
hanging  round.    I'm  sick  of  women,  and  that's  flat. 


THE  DARK  ROOM  437 

"I'm  not  pretending  it's  not  all  my  own  fault.  It  is.  All  my 
own  fault,  but  I  don't  want  any  one  coming  round  and  saying  so. 
And  I  don't  want  any  pity.  You've  had  a  nice  romantic  idea  in 
your  head,  saving  the  sinner  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Well,  you  can 
get  back  to  your  parson.    He's  the  sort  for  that  kind  of  stuff." 

"  Indeed  I  haven't,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  don't  care  whether  you're 
a  sinner  or  not.  You're  being  too  serious  about  it  all,  Martin.  We 
were  old  friends.  When  I  heard  you  were  in  London  I  came 
to  see  you.  That's  all.  I  may  as  well  stay  here  as  anywhere  else. 
Aunt  Anne's  dead  and — and — Uncle  Mathew  too.  There's  nowhere 
else  for  me  to  go.  I  don't  pity  you.  Why  should  I  ?  You  think 
too  much  about  yourself,  Martin.  It  wasn't  to  be  clever  that  I 
got  these  things.  I  was  hungry,  and  I  didn't  want  to  eat  in  an 
A.B.C.  shop." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  turning  away  from  the  table. 

He  stood  up,  fumbling  in  his  pocket.  He  produced  a  pipe  and 
some  tobacco  out  of  a  paper  packet.  As  he  filled  it  she  saw  that 
his  hand  was  trembling. 

He  turned  finally  upon  her. 

"  Whatever  your  plan  was  it's  failed,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to 
bed  straight  away  now.  And  to-morrow  morning  early  I'm  off. 
Thank  you  for  the  meal  and — good-night  and  good-bye." 

He  gave  her  one  straight  look.  She  looked  up  at  him,  calmly.. 
He  dropped  his  eyes;  then,  clumsily  he  walked  off,  opened  his  bed- 
room door,  closed  it  behind  him,  and  was  gone. 

She  sat  there,  staring  in  front  of  her,  thinking.  What  was  she 
to  do  now?  At  least  she  might  clear  up.  She  had  nowhere  to 
wash  the  things.  She  would  put  them  ready  for  the  morning.  She 
tidied  the  table,  put  the  plates  and  cups  together,  then,  overcome  by 
a  sudden  exhaustion,  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

She  realised  then  the  fight  that  the  day  had  been.  Yes,  a  fight! 
.  .  .  and  she  was  still  only  at  the  beginning  of  it.  If  he  really 
went  away  in  the  morning  what  could  she  do?  She  could  not 
follow  him  all  round  London.  But  she  would  not  despair  yet. 
No,  she  was  far  from  despair.    But  she  was  tired,  tired  to  death. 

She  sat  on  there  in  a  kind  of  dream.  There  were  no  sounds  in 
the  house.  The  fire  began  to  drop  very  low.  There  were  no  more 
coals.  The  room  began  to  be  very  chilly.  She  laid  her  head  back 
on  the  sofa;  she  was  half  asleep.  She  was  dreaming — Paul  was 
there  and  Grace — the  Skeaton  sands — the  Revival  procession  with 
the  lanterns — the  swish  of  the  sea.   .    .    . 

Suddenly  she  was  wide  awake.  The  lamp  had  burnt  down  to  a 
low  rim  of  light.    Martin  was  coughing  in  the  other  room.    Cough- 


438  THE  CAPTIVES 

ing!  She  had  never  heard  such  a  cough,  something  inhuman  and 
strange.  She  stood  up,  her  hands  clutched.  She  waited.  Then, 
as  it  continued,  growing  fiercer  and  fiercer,  so  that  in  spite  of  the 
closed  door  it  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  room  with  her,  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  The  room  was  lit  by  a  candle 
placed  on  a  chair  beside  the  bed.  Martin  was  sitting  up,  his  hands 
clenched,  his  face  convulsed.  The  cough  went  on — choking,  con- 
vulsing, as  though  some  terrible  enemy  had  hands  at  his  windpipe. 
He  grasped  the  bedclothes,  his  eyes,  frightened  and  dilated,  staring 
in  front  of  him. 

She  went  to  him.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  whispered  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  miles  away: 

"  Bottle    .   .    .    over  there    .    .    .    glass." 

She  saw  on  the  wash-hand  stand  a  bottle  with  a  medicine  glass 
behind  it.  She  read  the  directions,  poured  out  the  drops,  took  it 
over  and  gave  it  to  him.  He  swallowed  it  down.  She  put  out  her 
arm  to  steady  him  and  felt  his  whole  body  tremble  beneath  her 
hand.  Gradually  he  was  quieter.  Utterly  exhausted  he  slipped 
back,  his  head  on  the  pillow. 

She  drew  her  chair  close  to  the  bed.  He  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak  and  did  not  look  at  her  at  all.  After  a  while  she  put  her 
hand  on  his  forehead  and  stroked  it.  He  did  not  draw  away  from 
her.  Slowly  his  head  turned  towards  her.  He  lay  there  in  the 
crook  of  her  arm,  she  bending  forward  over  him. 

Her  heart  beat.  She  tried  not  to  be  conscious  of  his  closeness 
to  her,  but  her  hand  trembled  as  it  touched  Ws  cheek. 

Still  he  did  not  move  away.  After,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  long 
time  he  was  asleep.  She  listened  to  his  breathing,  and  only  then, 
when  she  knew  that  he  could  not  hear,  she  whispered: 

"  Oh,  Martin,  I  love  you  so !    Dear  Martin,  I  love  you  so  much !  " 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and,  her  arm  beneath  his  head,  sat  there, 
watching. 


CHAPTER  H 

HOBGOBLINS 

THE  dawn  had  made  the  dark  room  grey  when  Maggie,  stiff 
and  sore  from  the  strained  position  in  which  she  had  been 
sitting,  went  up  to  her  room.  She  had  intended  not  to  go  to 
bed,  but  weariness  overcame  her;  she  lay  down  on  her  bed,  dressed 
as  she  was,  and  fell  into  a  deep,  exhausted  slumber. 

When  she  woke  it  was  broad  daylight.  She  was  panic-stricken. 
How  could  she  have  slept?  And  now  he  might  have  gone.  She 
washed  her  face  and  hands  in  the  horrible  little  tin  basin,  brushed 
her  hair,  and  then,  with  beating  heart,  went  downstairs.  His 
sitting-room  was  just  as  she  had  left  it,  the  unwashed  plates  piled 
together,  the  red  cloth  over  the  window,  the  dead  ashes  of  the  fire 
in  the  grate.  Very  gently  she  opened  his  bedroom  door.  He  was 
still  in  bed.  She  went  over  to  him.  He  was  asleep,  muttering, 
his  hands  clenched  on  the  counterpane.  His  cheeks  were  flushed. 
To  her  inexperienced  eyes  he  looked  very  ill. 

She  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  with  a  start  he  sprang 
awake,  his  eyes  wide  open  with  terror,  and  he  crying: 

"What  is  it?    No    ...    no    .    .    .    don't.    Don't." 

"  It's  all  right,  Martin.    It's  I,  Maggie,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her;  then  dropping  back  on  to  the  pillow,  he  mut- 
tered wearily  as  though  he  were  worn  out  after  a  long  struggle : 

"I'm  bad.  .  .  .  It's  my  chest.  There's  a  doctor.  They'll 
tell  you.    .   .   .    He's  been  here  before." 

She  went  into  the  other  room  and  rang  the  bell.  After  a  time 
Mrs.  Brandon  herself  appeared. 

"  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Warlock  is  very  ill,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to 
keep  her  voice  from  trembling.  "  He's  asked  me  to  fetch  the  doc- 
tor who's  been  here  to  see  him  before.  Can  you  tell  me  who  he  is 
and  where  he  lives?  " 

Mrs.  Brandon's  bright  and  inquisitive  eyes  moved  round  the 
room,  taking  in  the  blue  china,  the  hyacinth  and  the  lamp. 

"  Certingly,"  she  said.  "  That  must  be  Dr.  Abrams.  'E  lives 
in  Cowley  Street,  No.  4 — Dr.  Emanuel  Abrams.  A  good  doctor 
when  'e's  sober,  and  the  morning's  the  best  time  to  be  sure  of  'im. 
Certingly  'e's  been  in  to  see  your  friend  several  times.  They've 
been  merry  together  more  than  once." 

439 


440  THE  CAPTIVES 

"Where  is  Cowley  Street?"  asked  Maggie. 

"  First  to  the  right  when  you  get  out  of  the  'ouse,  and  then 
second  to  the  left  again.  No.  4's  the  number.  It's  most  likely 
'e'll  be  asleep.  Yes,  Dr.  Abrams,  that's  the  name.  'E's  attended  a 
lot  in  this  'ouse.  Wot  a  pretty  flower !  Cheers  the  room  up  I  must 
say.     Will  you  be  wanting  another  fire?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Could  Emily  see  to  that  while  I'm 
away  ? " 

"  Certingly,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  curi- 
ous confidential  smile — a  hateful  smile,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
think  about  it. 

Maggie  went  out.  She  found  Cowley  Street  without  any  diffi- 
culty. Dr.  Abrams  was  up  and  having  his  breakfast.  His  close, 
musty  room  smelt  of  whisky  and  kippers.  He  himself  was  a  little, 
fat  round  Jew,  very  red  in  the  face,  very  small  in  the  eye,  very 
black  in  the  hair,  and  very  dirty  in  the  hands. 

He  was  startled  by  Maggie's  appearance — very  different  she  was 
from  his  usual  patients. 

"  Looked  just  a  baby,"  he  informed  Mrs.  Brandon  afterwards. 

"Mrs.  Warlock?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie  defiantly.    "  I'm  a  friend  of  Mr.  Warlock's." 

"  Ah,  yes — quite  so."  He  wiped  his  mouth,  disappeared  into 
another  room,  returned  with  a  shabby  black  bag  and  a  still  shab- 
bier top  hat,  and  declared  himself  ready  to  start. 

"  It's  pneumonia,"  he  told  her  as  they  went  along.  "  Had  it 
three  weeks  ago.  Of  course  if  he  was  out  in  yesterday's  fog  that 
finished  him." 

"  He  was  out,"  said  Maggie,  "  for  a  long  time." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Dr.  Abrams.  "  That's  killed  him,  I  shouldn't 
wonder."  He  snuffled  in  his  speech  and  he  snuffled  in  his 
walk. 

Before  they  had  gone  very  far  he  put  his  hand  on  Maggie's 
arm;  she  hated  his  touch,  but  his  last  words  had  so  deeply  terrified 
her  that  nothing  else  affected  her.  If  Martin  were  killed  by  going 
out  yesterday  then  she  had  killed  him.  He  had  gone  out  to 
escape  her.  But  she  drove  that  thought  from  her  as  she  had  driven 
so  many  others. 

"  The  penumonia's  bad  enough,"  said  the  little  man,  becoming 
more  confidential  as  his  grip  tightened  on  her  arm,  "  but  it's 
heart's  the  trouble.  Might  finish  him  any  day.  Tells  me  his 
father  was  the  same.  What  a  nice  warm  arm  you've  got,  my  dear 
— it's  a  pleasant  day,  too." 

They  entered  the  house  and  Dr.  Abrams  stayed  chatting  with 


HOBGOBLINS  441 

Emily  in  the  passage  for  a  considerable  time.  Any  one  of  the 
opposite  sex  seemed  to  hare  an  irresistible  attraction  for  him. 

When  they  went  upstairs  the  doctor  was  so  held  by  his  burning 
curiosity  that  it  was  difficult  to  lead  him  into  Martin's  bedroom. 
Everything  interested  him;  he  bent  down  and  felt  the  tablecloth 
with  his  dirty  thumb,  then  the  soil  round  the  hyacinth,  then  the 
blue  china.  Between  every  investigation  he  stared  at  Maggie  as 
though  he  were  now  seeing  her  for  the  first  time.  At  last,  how- 
ever, he  was  bending  over  Martin,  and  his  examination  was  clever 
and  deft ;  he  had  been,  like  his  patient,  used  to  better  days.  Martin 
was  very  ill. 

"  The  boy's  bad,"  he  said,  turning  sharply  round  upon  Maggie. 

From  the  speaking  of  that  word,  for  six  days  and  six  nights 
he  was  Maggie's  loyal  friend  and  fellow-combatant.  They  fought, 
side  by  side,  in  the  great  struggle  for  Martin's  life.  They  won; 
but  when  Maggie  tried  to  look  back  afterwards  on  the  history  of 
that  wrestling,  she  saw  nothing  connectedly,  only  the  candle-light 
springing  and  falling,  the  little  doctor's  sharp  eyes,  the  torn  paper 
of  the  wall,  the  ragged  carpet,  and  always  that  strange  mask  that 
was  Martin's  face  and  yet  the  face  of  a  stranger,  something  tor- 
tured and  fantastic,  passing  from  Chinese  immobility  to  frenzied 
pain,  from  pain  to  sweating  exhaustion,  from  exhaustion  back  to 
immobility. 

On  the  eighth  day  she  rose,  as  a  swimmer  rises  from  green 
depths,  and  saw  the  sunshine  and  the  landscape  again. 

"  He'll  do  if  you're  careful,"  said  Dr.  Abrams,  and  suddenly 
became  once  more  the  curious,  dirty,  sensual  little  creature  that  he 
had  been  at  first.  Her  only  contact  with  the  outer  world  had  been 
her  visits  to  the  neighbouring  streets  for  necessaries  and  one 
journey  to  the  bank  (the  nearest  branch  was  in  Oxford  Street)  to 
settle  about  her  money.  But  now,  with  the  doctor's  words,  the 
rest  of  the  world  came  back  to  her.  She  remembered  Paul.  She 
was  horrified  to  realise  that  during  these  days  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten him.  He,  of  course  could  not  write  to  her  because  he  did 
not  know  her  address.  When  she  saw  that  Martin  was  quietly 
sleeping  she  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter: 

13a  Lynton  Street. 
Kino's  Cross,  April  28th,  1912. 
My  dear  Paul, — I  have  been  very  wrong  indeed  not  to  write  to 
you  before  this.     It's  only  of  a  piece  with  all  my  other  bad  be- 
haviour to  you,  and  it's  very  late  now  to  say  that  I  am  ashamed. 
I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  which  is  that  on  the  day  I  left  you  I  had 


442  THE  CAPTIVES 

received  a  letter  telling  me  that  the  friend  of  whom  I  have  often 
told  you  was  in  England,  very  ill,  and  with  no  one  to  care  for  him. 
I  had  to  go.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong — wrong 
I  suppose — but  I  always  knew  that  if  he  ever  wanted  me  I  should 
go.  I've  always  been  truthful  to  you  about  that.  When  I  came 
here  I  found  that  he  was  in  horrible  lodgings,  very  ill  indeed,  and 
with  no  one  to  look  after  him.  I  had  to  stay,  and  now  for  a  week 
he  has  been  between  life  and  death.  He  had  pneumonia  some 
weeks  ago  and  went  out  too  soon.  His  heart  also  is  bad.  I  believe 
now  he  can  get  well  if  great  care  is  taken. 

Dear  Paul,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  have  a  bedroom 
in  this  house  and  every  one  is  very  kind  to  me,  but  you  will  think 
me  very  wicked.  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  come  back  to  you  and 
Grace.  Perhaps  later  when  he  is  quite  well  I  shall  be  able  to,  but 
I  don't  think  so.  You  don't  need  me;  I  have  never  been  satisfac- 
tory to  you,  only  a  worry.  Grace  will  never  be  able  to  live  with  me 
again,  and  I  can't  stay  in  Skeaton  any  more  after  Uncle  Mathew's 
death.  It  has  all  been  a  wretched  mistake,  Paul,  our  marriage, 
hasn't  it  ?  It  was  my  fault  entirely.  I  shouldn't  have  married  you 
when  I  knew  that  I  would  always  love  Martin.  I  thought  then  that 
I  should  be  able  to  make  you  happy.  If  now  I  felt  that  I  could  I 
would  come  back  at  once,  but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that,  after 
this,  we  shall  never  be  happy  together  again.  I  blame  myself  so 
much  but  I  can't  act  differently.  Perhaps  when  Martin  is  well 
he  will  not  want  me  at  all,  but  even  then  I  don't  think  I  could 
come  back.  Isn't  it  better  that  at  least  I  should  stay  away  for  a 
time?  You  can  say  that  I  am  staying  with  friends  in  London. 
You  will  be  happier  without  me,  oh,  much  happier — and  Grace  will 
be  happier  too.  Perhaps  you  will  think  it  better  to  forget  me  alto- 
gether and  then  your  life  will  be  as  it  was  before  you  met  me. 

I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  the  trouble  I  have  been 
to  you.    I  don't  think  you  can.    But  I  can't  do  differently  now. 

Your  affectionate  Maggie. 

She  felt  when  she  had  finished  it  that  it  was  miserably  inade- 
quate, but  at  least  it  was  truthful.  As  she  wrote  it  her  old  feelings 
of  tenderness  and  affection  for  Paul  came  back  in  a  great  flood. 
She  saw  him  during  the  many,  many  times  when  he  had  been 
so  good  to  her.  She  was  miserable  as  she  finished  it,  but  she 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  And  he  would  know  it 
too. 

A  day  later  a  long  letter  came  from  Paul.  It  was  very  char- 
acteristic.   It  began  by  saying  that  of  course  Maggie  must  return 


HOBGOBLINS  443 

at  once.  Throughout,  the  voice  was  that  of  a  grieved  and  angry 
elder  talking  to  a  wicked  and  disobedient  child.  She  saw  that. 
far  beyond  everything  else,  it  was  his  pride  that  was  wounded, 
wounded  as  it  had  never  been  before.  He  could  see  nothing  but 
that.  Did  she  realise,  he  asked  her,  what  she  was  doing?  Sinning 
against  all  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  If  she  persisted  in  her 
wickedness  she  would  be  cut  off  from  all  decent  people.  No  one 
could  say  that  he  had  not  shown  her  every  indulgence,  every 
kindness,  every  affection.  Even  now  he  was  ready  to  forgive  her, 
but  she  must  come  back  at  once,  at  once.  Her  extreme  youth  ex- 
cused much,  and  both  he  and  Grace  realised  it. 

Through  it  all  the  strain — did  she  not  see  what  she  was  doing? 
How  could  she  behave  so  wickedly  when  she  had  been  given  so 
many  blessings,  when  she  had  been  shown  the  happiness  of  a  Chris- 
tian home?    .    .   . 

It  was  not  a  letter  to  soften  Maggie's  resolve.  She  wrote  a  short 
reply  saying  that  she  could  not  come.  She  thought  then  that  he 
would  run  up  to  London  to  fetch  her.  But  he  did  not.  He  wrote 
once  more,  and  then,  for  a  time,  there  was  silence. 

She  had  little  interval  in  which  to  think  about  Paul;  Martin 
soon  compelled  her  attention.  He  was  well  enough  now  to  be  up. 
He  would  lie  all  day,  without  moving  except  to  take  his  meals, 
on  the  old  red  sofa,  stretched  out  there,  his  arms  behind  his  head, 
looking  at  Maggie  with  a  strange  taunting  malicious  stare  as 
though  he  were  defying  her  to  stand  up  to  him.  She  did  stand 
up  to  him,  although  it  needed  all  her  strength,  moral  and  physical. 
He  was  attacking  her  soul  and  she  was  saving  his.    .    .    . 

He  said  no  more  about  his  going  away.  He  accepted  it  as  a 
fact  that  she  was  there  and  that  she  would  stay  there.  He  had 
changed  his  position  and  was  fighting  her  on  another  ground. 

Maggie  had  once,  years  before,  read  in  a  magazine,  a  story 
about  a  traveller  and  a  deserted  house.  This  traveller,  lost,  as  are 
all  travellers  in  stories,  in  a  forest,  benighted  and  hungry,  saw  the 
lights  of  a  house. 

He  goes  forward  and  finds  a  magnificent  mansion,  blazing  with 
light  in  every  window,  but  apparently  deserted.  He  enters  and 
finds  room  after  room  prepared  for  guests.  A  fine  meal  is  laid 
ready  and  he  enjoys  it.  He  discovers  the  softest  of  beds  and  soon 
is  fast  asleep;  but  when  he  is  safely  snoring  back  creep  all  the 
guests  out  of  the  forest,  hideous  and  evil,  warped  and  deformed, 
maimed  and  rotten  with  disease.  They  had  left  the  house,  that  he 
might  be  lured  in  it,  knowing  that  he  would  never  come  whilst 
they  were  there.     And  so  they  creep  into  all  the  rooms,  flinging 


444  THE  CAPTIVES 

their  horrible  shadows  upon  the  gleaming  walls,  and  gradually  they 
steal  about  the  bed.    .    .    . 

Maggie  forgot  the  end  of  the  story.  The  traveller  escaped,  or 
perhaps  he  did  not.  Perhaps  he  was  strangled.  But  that  moment 
of  his  awakening,  when  his  startled  eyes  first  stared  upon 
those  horrible  faces,  those  deformed  bodies,  those  evil  smiles! 
What  could  one  do,  one  naked  and  defenceless  against  so 
many? 

Maggie  thought  of  this  story  during  Martin's  convalescence. 
She  seemed  to  see  the  evil  guests,  crowding  back,  one  after  the 
other  into  his  soul,  and  as  they  came  back  they  peeped  out  at 
her,  smiling  from  the  lighted  windows.  She  saw  that  his  plan 
was  to  thrust  before  her  the  very  worst  of  himself.  He  said: 
"  Well,  I've  tried  to  get  rid  of  her  and  she  won't  go.  That's  her 
own  affair,  but  if  she  stays,  at  least  she  shall  see  me  as  I  am. 
No  false  sentimental  picture.    I'll  cure  her." 

It  was  the  oldest  trick  in  the  world,  but  to  Maggie  it  was  new 
enough.  At  first  she  was  terrified.  In  spite  of  her  early  experi- 
ence with  her  father,  when  she  had  learnt  what  wickedness  could 
be,  she  was  a  child  in  all  knowledge  of  the  world.  Above  all  she 
knew  very  little  about  her  own  sex  and  its  relation  with  men. 
But  she  determined  that  she  must  take  the  whole  of  Martin;  in 
the  very  first  days  of  her  love  she  had  resolved  that,  and  now 
that  resolution  was  to  be  put  to  the  test.  Her  terrified  fear  was  lest 
the  things  that  he  told  her  about  himself  should  affect  her  love 
for  him.  She  had  told  him  years  before :  "  It  isn't  the  things 
you've  done  that  I  mind  or  care  about :  it's  you,  not  actions  that 
matter."  But  his  actions  were  himself,  and  what  was  she  to  do  if 
all  these  things  that  he  said  were  true? 

Then  she  discovered  that  she  had  indeed  spoken  the  truth. 
Her  love  for  him  did  not  change;  it  rather  grew,  helped  and 
strengthened  by  a  maternal  pity  and  care  that  deepened  and  deep- 
ened. He  seemed  to  her  a  man  really  possessed,  in  literal  fact,  by 
devils.  The  story  of  the  lighted  house  was  the  symbol,  only  he,  in 
the  bitterness  and  defiance  of  his  heart,  had  invited  the  guests, 
not  been  surprised  by  them. 

He  pretended  to  glory  in  his  narration,  boasting  and  swearing 
what  he  would  do  when  he  would  return  to  the  old  scenes,  how 
happy  and  triumphant  he  had  been  in  the  midst  of  his  filth — 
but  young  and  ignorant  though  she  was  she  saw  beneath  this  the 
misery,  the  shame,  the  bitterness,  the  ignominy.  He  was  down  in 
the  dust,  in  a  despair  furious  and  more  self-accusing  than  any- 
thing of  which  she  had  ever  conceived. 


HOBGOBLINS  445 

Again  and  again,  too,  although  this  was  never  deliberately 
stated,  she  saw  that  he  spoke  like  a  man  caught  in  a  trap.  He  did 
not  blame  any  one  but  himself  for  the  catastrophe  of  his  life,  but 
he  often  spoke,  in  spite  of  himself,  like  a  man  who  from  the  very 
beginning  had  been  under  some  occult  influence.  He  never  al- 
luded now  to  his  early  days  but  she  remembered  how  he  had  once 
told  her  that  that  "  Religion  "  had  "  got "  him  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, and  had  weighted  all  the  scales  against  him.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  said :  "  I  was  told  from  the  very  beginning  that  I 
was  to  be  made  a  fighting-ground  of.  I  didn't  want  to  be  that. 
I  wasn't  the  man  for  that.    I  was  chosen  wrongly." 

He  only  once  made  any  allusion  to  his  father's  death,  but  Maggie 
very  soon  discovered  that  that  was  never  away  from  his  mind. 
"  I  loved  my  father  and  I  killed  him,"  he  said  one  day,  "  so  I 
thought  it  wise  not  to  love  any  one  again." 

Gradually  a  picture  was  created  in  Maggie's  mind,  a  picture 
originating  in  that  dirty,  dark  room  where  they  were.  She  saw 
many  foreign  countries  and  many  foreign  towns,  and  in  all  of 
them  men  and  women  were  evil.  The  towns  were  always  in  the 
hour  between  daylight  and  dark,  the  streets  twisted  and  obscure, 
the  inhabitants  furtive  and  sinister. 

The  things  that  those  inhabitants  did  were  made  quite  plain 
to  her.  She  saw  the  dancing  saloons,  the  women  naked  and 
laughing,  the  men  drunken  and  besotted,  the  gambling,  the  quar- 
relling, drugging,  suicide — all  under  a  half-dead  sky,  stinking  and 
offensive. 

One  day,  at  last,  she  laughed. 

"  Martin,"  she  cried,  "  don't  let's  be  so  serious  about  it.  You 
can't  want  to  go  back  to  that  life — it's  so  dull.  At  first  I  was 
frightened,  but  now! — why  it's  all  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again." 

"I'm  only  telling  you,"  he  said;  "I  don't  say  that  I  do  want 
to  go  back  again.  I  don't  want  anything  except  for  you  to  go 
away.     I  just  want  to  go  to  hell  my  own  fashion." 

"  You  talk  so  much  about  going  to  hell,"  she  said.  "  Why,  for 
ten  days  now  you've  spoken  of  nothing  else.  There  are  other 
places,  you  know." 

"  You  clear  out  and  get  back  to  your  parson,"  he  said.  "  You 
must  see  from  what  I've  told  you  it  isn't  any  good  your  staying. 
I've  no  money.  My  health's  gone  all  to  billyoh!  I  don't  want 
to  get  better.  Why  should  I?  Perhaps  I  did  love  you  a  little  bit 
— once — in  a  queer  way,  but  that's  all  gone  now.  I  don't  love 
any  one  on  this  earth.     I  just  want  to  get  rid  of  this  almighty 


446  THE  CAPTIVES 

confusion  going  on  in  my  head.  I  can't  rest  for  it.  I'd  finish 
myself  off  if  I  had  pluck  enough.    I  just  haven't." 

"  Martin,"  she  said,  "  why  did  you  write  all  those  letters  to  me  ?  " 

"What  letters?"  he  asked. 

"  Those  that  Amy  stopped — the  ones  from  abroad." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  looked  away  from  her.  "  I  was  a  bit 
lonely,  I  suppose." 

"  Tell  me  another  thing,"  she  said.  "  These  weeks  I've  been 
here  have  I  bored  you  ? " 

u  I've  been  too  ill  to  tell.  .  .  .  How  do  I  know  ?  Well,  no,  you 
haven't.  You're  such  a  queer  kid.  You're  different  from  any  other 
human — utterly  different.  No,  you  haven't  bored  me — but  don't 
think  from  that  I  like  having  you  here.  I  don't — you  remind 
me  of  the  old  life.  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it  more  than  I  must. 
You'll  admit  I've  been  trying  to  scare  you  stiff  in  all  I've  told 
you,  and  I  haven't  scared  you.  It's  true,  most  of  it,  but  it  isn't  so 
damned  sensational  as  I've  tried  to  make  it.  .  .  .  But,  all  the 
same,  what's  the  use  of  your  staying?  I  don't  lore  you,  and  I'm 
never  likely  to.  I've  told  you  long  ago  you're  not  the  sort  of  woman 
to  attract  me  physically.  You  never  did.  You're  more  like  a  boy. 
Why  should  you  ruin  your  own  life  when  there's  nothing  to  gain 
by  it?  You  will  ruin  it,  you  know,  staying  on  here  with  me. 
Every  one  thinks  we're  living  together.  Have  you  heard  from  your 
parson  ? " 

*  Yes,"  said  Maggie. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  He  says  I've  got  to  go  back  at  once." 

"  Well,  there  you  are." 

"  But  don't  you  see,  Martin,  I  shouldn't  go  back  to  him  even  if 
I  left  you.  I've  quite  decided  that.  He'll  never  be  happy  with 
me  unless  I  love  him,  which  I  can't  do,  and  there's  his  sister  who 
hates  me.  And  he's  just  rooted  in  Skeaton.  I  can't  live  there 
after  Uncle  Mathew !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  that." 

"  No,"  she  said,  shrinking  back.  "  I'll  never  tell  any  one.  Not 
even  you." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "  You  must  see 
how  hopeless  it  is,  Maggie.  You've  got  nothing  to  get  out  of  it. 
As  soon  as  I'm  well  enough  I  shall  go  off  and  leave  you.  You 
can't  follow  me,  hunting  me  everywhere.    You  must  see  that." 

"  Yes,  but  what  you  don't,  Martin,  see,"  she  answered  him,  "  is 
that  I've  got  some  right  to  think  of  my  own  happiness.  It's  quite 
true  what  you  say,  that  if  you  get  well  and  decide  you  don't  want 


HOBGOBLINS  447 

to  see  me  I  won't  follow  you.  Of  course  I  won't.  Perhaps  one 
day  you  will  want  me  all  the  same.  But  I'm  happy  only  with  you, 
and  so  long  as  I  don't  bore  you  I'm  going  to  stay.  I've  always  been 
wrong  with  every  one  else,  stupid  and  doing  everything  I  shouldn't. 
But  with  you  it  isn't  so.  I'm  not  stupid,  and  however  you  behave 
I'm  happy.    I  can't  help  it.    It's  just  so." 

"  But  how  can  you  be  happy  ? "  he  said,  "  I'm  not  the  sort  for 
any  one  to  be  happy  with.  When  I've  been  drinking  I'm  impos- 
sible. I'm  sulky  and  lazy,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  any  better  either. 
You  may  think  you're  happy  these  first  few  weeks,  but  you  won't 
be  later  on." 

"  Let's  try,"  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "  Here's  a  bargain,  Martin. 
You  say  I  don't  bore  you.  I'll  stay  with  you  until  you're  quite 
well.  Then  if  you  don't  want  me  I'll  go  and  not  bother  you  until 
you  ask  for  me.    Is  that  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  You'd  much  better  not,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  think  I'm  staying,"  she  answered,  "because  I  think 
you  so  splendid  that  I  can't  leave  you.  I  don't  think  you  splendid 
at  all.  And  it's  not  because  I  think  myself  splendid  either.  I'm 
being  quite  selfish  about  it.  I'm  staying  simply  because  I'm  hap- 
pier so." 

*  You'd  much  better  not,"  he  repeated. 

"  Is  that  a  bargain  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her  with  puzzled  eyes. 

It  was  the  first  long  conversation  that  they  had  had.  After  it, 
he  was  no  nicer  than  before.  He  never  kissed  her,  he  never  touched 
her,  he  seldom  talked  to  her;  when  she  talked,  he  seemed  to  be 
little  interested.  For  hours  he  lay  there,  looking  in  front  of  him, 
saying  nothing.  When  the  little  doctor  came  they  wrangled  and 
fought  together  but  seemed  to  like  one  another. 

Through  it  all  Maggie  could  see  that  he  was  riddled  with  deep 
shame  and  self-contempt  and  haunted,  always,  by  the  thought  of 
his  father.  She  longed  to  speak  to  him  about  his  father's  death, 
but  as  yet  she  did  not  dare.  If  once  she  could  persuade  him  that 
that  had  not  been  his  fault,  she  could,  she  thought,  really  help  him. 
That  was  the  secret  canker  at  his  heart  and  she  could  not  touch 
it. 

Strangely,  as  the  days  passed,  the  years  that  had  been  added 
to  him  since  their  last  meeting  seemed  to  fall  away.  He  became 
to  her  more  and  more  the  boy  that  he  had  been  when  she  had  known 
him  before.  In  a  thousand  ways  he  showed  it,  his  extraordinary 
youth  and  inexperience  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  been  and  done. 
She  felt  older  now  than  he  and  she  loved  him  the  more  for  that. 


448  THE  CAPTIVES 

Most  of  all  she  longed  to  get  him  away  from  this  place  where  he 
was.     Then  one  day  little  Abrams  said  to  her: 

"  He'll  never  get  well  here." 

"  That's  what  I  think,"  she  said. 

"  Can't  you  carry  him  off  somewhere?  The  country's  the  place 
for  him — somewhere  in  the  South." 

Her  heart  leapt. 

"  Oh,  Glebeshire !  "  she  cried. 

"  Well,  that's  not  a  bad  place,"  he  said.  "  That  would  pick  him 
up." 

At  once  she  thought,  night  and  day,  of  St.  Dreot's.  A  very 
hunger  possessed  her  to  get  back  there.  And  why  not?  For  one 
thing,  it  would  be  so  much  cheaper.  Her  money  would  not  last 
for  ever,  and  Mrs.  Brandon  robbed  her  whenever  possible.  She 
determined  that  she  would  manage  it.  At  last,  greatly  fearing 
it,  she  mentioned  it  to  him,  and  to  her  surprise  he  did  not  scorn  it. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  that  curious  puzzled 
expression  that  she  often  saw  now  in  his  eyes.  "  I'm  sick  of  this 
room.  That's  a  bargain,  Maggie,  you  can  put  me  where  you  like 
until  I'm  well.    Then  I'm  off." 

She  had  a  strange  superstition  that  Borhedden  was  fated  to  see 
her  triumph.  She  had  wandered  round  the  world  and  now  was  re- 
turning again  to  her  own  home.  She  remembered  a  Mrs.  Bolitho 
who  had  had  the  farm  in  her  day.  She  wrote  to  her,  and  two 
days  later  received  a  letter  saying  that  there  was  room  for  them  at 
Borhedden  if  they  wished. 

She  was  now  all  feverish  impatience.  Dr.  Abrams  said  that 
Martin  could  be  moved  if  they  were  very  careful.  All  plans  were 
made.  Mrs.  Brandon  and  the  ugly  little  doctor  both  seemed  quite 
sorry  that  they  were  going,  and  Emily  even  sniffed  and  wiped  her 
eye  with  the  corner  of  her  apron.  The  world  seemed  now  to  be 
turning  a  different  face  to  Maggie.  Human  beings  liked  her  and 
were  no  longer  suspicious  to  her  as  they  had  been  before. 

She  felt  herself  how  greatly  she  had  changed.  It  was  as  though, 
until  she  had  found  Martin  again,  everything  had  been  tied  up 
in  her,  constrained.    She  had  been  some  one  lost  and  desolate. 

Nevertheless,  how  difficult  these  days  were!  Through  all  this 
time  she  spoke  to  him  no  affectionate  word  nor  touched  him  with 
an  affectionate  gesture.  She  was  simply  a  good-humoured  com- 
panion, laughing  at  him,  assuming,  through  it  all,  an  off-hand 
indifference  that  meant  for  her  so  difficult  a  pretence  that  she 
thought  he  must  discover  it.  He  did  not;  he  was  in  many  ways 
more  simple  than  she.     She  laid  to  sleep  his  suspicions.     She 


HOBGOBLINS  449 

could  feel  his  relief  that  she  was  not  romantic,  that  she  wanted 
nothing  whatever  from  him.  He  was  ill — therefore  was  often 
churlish.  He  tried  to  hurt  her  again  and  again  with  cruel  words 
and  then  waited  to  see  whether  she  were  hurt.  She  never  showed 
him.  He  treated  her  with  contempt,  often  not  answering  her 
questions,  laughing  at  her  little  stupidities,  complaining  of  her 
forgetfulness  and,  sometimes,  her  untidiness — telling  her  again  and 
again  to  "  go  back  to  her  parson." 

She  gave  no  sign.  She  fought  her  way.  But  it  hurt ;  she  could 
not  have  believed  that  anything  could  hurt  so  much.  She  was 
being  always  drawn  to  him,  longing  to  put  her  arm  around  him, 
to  dare  to  kiss  him,  risking  any  repulse.  He  seemed  so  young, 
so  helpless,  so  unhappy.  Every  part  of  him  called  to  her,  his  hair, 
his  eyes,  his  voice,  his  body.  But  she  held  herself  in,  she  never 
gave  way,  she  was  resolute  in  her  plan. 

On  their  last  evening  in  Lynton  Street,  for  five  minutes,  he 
was  suddenly  kind  to  her,  almost  the  old  Martin  speaking  with  the 
old  voice.  She  held  her  breath,  scarcely  daring  to  let  herself  know 
how  happy  she  was. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  God,  Maggie  ? "  he  asked,  turning  on 
the  sofa  and  looking  at  her. 

"  Think  about  God  ? "  she  said,  repeating  his  words. 

"Yes.    ...    Is  there  one?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I  haven't  any  intelligence  about  those  things." 

"  Is  there  immortality  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"  I  hope  not.    Your  parson  thinks  there  is,  doesn't  he  ? " 

"  Of  course  he  does." 

"  Did  he  have  lots  of  services  and  did  you  have  to  go  to  them  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Poor  Maggie — always  having  to  go  to  them.  Well,  it's  queer. 
Funny  if  there  isn't  anything  after  all  when  there's  been  such  a 
fight  about  it  so  long.  Did  they  make  you  very  religious  at 
Skeaton  or  wherever  the  place  was?  " 

"  No,"  said  Maggie.  "  They  thought  me  a  terrible  heathen. 
Grace  was  terrified  of  me,  I  seemed  so  wicked  to  her.  She  thought 
I  was  bewitching  Paul's  soul " 

"Perhaps  you  were." 

"  No.  So  little  did  I  that  he  hasn't  even  come  up  to  London  to 
fetch  me." 

"  Which  did  you  like  best — Skeaton  or  the  Chapel  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  was  wrong  in  both  of  them.  They  were  just 
opposite." 


450  THE  CAPTIVES 

Maggie  waited  a  little.  Then  she  said :  "  Martin  there  must  be 
something.  I  can  feel  it  as  though  it  were  behind  a  wall  some- 
where— I  can  hear  it  and  I  can't  see  anything.  Aunt  Anne  and 
— and — your  father,  and  Paul,  and  Mr.  Magnus  were  all  trying. 
...    It  feels  like  a  fight,  but  I  don't  know  who's  fighting  who." 

Her  allusion  to  his  father  had  been  unfortunate. 

"It's  all  damned  rot  if  you  ask  me,"  he  said,  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall  and  wouldn't  say  another  word. 

Next  morning  they  started.  Mrs.  Brandon's  bill  was  as  large 
as  she  could  make  it  and  still  not  very  large.  Dr.  Abrams,  to 
Maggie's  immense  surprise,  would  not  take  a  penny. 

"  I'm  not  wantin'  money  just  now,"  he  said.  "  I'm  robbing  a  rich 
old  man  who  lives  near  here.  I'm  a  sort  of  highway  man,  you 
know,  rob  the  rich  and  spend  it  how  I  like.  Now  don't  you  press 
me  to  make  up  a  bill  or  I  shall  change  my  mind  and  give  you 
one  and  it  will  be  so  large  that  you  won't  be  able  to  go  down  to 
Glebeshire.  How  would  you  like  that?  Oh,  don't  think  I'm 
doing  it  from  fine  motives.  You're  both  a  couple  of  babies,  that's 
what  you  are,  and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  rob  you.  How  you're 
ever  going  to  get  through  the  world  I  don't  know.  The  Babes  in 
the  Wood  weren't  in  it.    He  thinks  he's  wicked,  doesn't  he  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  does,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Wicked !  Why,  he  doesn't  know  what  wickedness  is.  A  couple 
of  children.  Look  after  his  heart  or  he'll  be  popping  off  one  fine 
morning." 

Maggie  turned  pale.  "  Oh  no,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling. 
*'  He's  going  to  get  well." 

Abrams  sniffed.  "If  he  doesn't  drink  and  leads  a  healthy  life 
he  may.  But  leopards  don't  change  their  spots.  He's  worrying 
over  something.    What  is  it  ? " 

"  His  father's  death,"  said  Maggie.  "  He  loved  his  father  more 
than  any  one  and  he's  got  it  into  his  head  that  he  gave  him  a 
shock  and  killed  him." 

"  Well,  you  get  it  out  of  his  head,"  said  Abrams.  "  He  won't  be 
better  until  you  do." 

Next  morning  they  were  at  Paddington,  Martin  very  feeble  but 
indifferent  to  everything.  They  had  a  third-class  compartment  to 
themselves  until  they  got  to  Exeter,  and  all  that  while  Martin 
never  spoke  a  word.  During  this  time  Maggie  did  a  lot  of  quiet 
thinking.  She  was  worried,  of  course,  about  many  things  but 
especially  finances.  She  knew  very  little  about  money.  She  gath- 
ered from  Martin  that  he  had  not  only  spent  all  that  his  aunt  had 
left  him,  but  had  gone  considerably  beyond  it,  that  he  was  badly 


HOBGOBLINS  451 

in  debt  and  saw  no  way  of  paying.  This  did  not  seem  to  worry  him 
but  it  worried  Maggie.  Debts  seemed  to  her  awful  things,  and  she 
could  not  imagine  how  any  one  lived  under  the  burden  of  them. 
Supposing  Martin  were  ill  for  a  long  time,  how  would  they  two 
live?  Her  little  stock  of  money  would  not  last  very  long.  She 
must  get  work,  but  she  knew  more  about  the  world  after  her 
years  at  Skeaton.  She  knew  how  ignorant  she  was,  how  unedu- 
cated and  how  unsophiscated.  She  did  not  doubt  her  ability  to 
fight  her  way,  but  there  might  be  weary  months  first,  and  mean- 
while what  of  Martin? 

She  looked  at  him,  asleep  now  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  his 
soft  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  his  head  sunk,  his  hands  heavy 
and  idle  on  his  lap.  A  fear  caught  at  her  heart  as  she  watched 
him;  he  looked,  indeed,  terribly  ill,  exhausted  with  struggle,  and 
now,  with  all  the  bitterness  and  despair  drowned  in  sleep,  very 
gentle  and  helpless.  She  bent  over  and  folded  the  rug  more  closely 
round  his  knees.  Had  he  woken  then  and  seen  her  gaze!  Her 
hands  rested  for  an  instant  on  his,  then  she  withdrew  back  into 
her  own  corner. 

That  coming  back  into  Glebeshire  could  not  but  be  wonder- 
ful to  her.  She  had  been  away  for  so  long  and  it  was  her 
home. 

The  tranquillity  and  peace  of  the  spring  evening  clothed  her  like 
a  garment,  the  brown  valleys,  the  soft  green  of  the  fields,  the  mild 
blue  of  the  sky  touched  her  until  she  could  with  difficulty  keep 
back  her  tears. 

"Oh,  make  it  right!"  she  whispered;  "make  it  right!  Give 
him  to  me  again — I  do  love  him  so ! " 

It  was  dusk  when  they  arrived  at  Clinton  St.  Mary's. 

The  little  station  stood  open  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  blowing 
in  from  the  wide  expanses  of  St.  Mary's  Moor.  Maggie  remem- 
bered, as  though  it  were  yesterday,  her  arrival  at  that  station  with 
Aune  Anne.    Yes,  she  had  grown  since  then. 

A  trap  was  waiting  for  them.  Martin  was  still  very  silent,  but 
he  liked  the  air  with  the  tang  of  the  sea  in  it,  and  he  asked  some- 
times about  the  names  of  places.  As  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to  all  the  old-remembered  scenes,  Maggie's  heart  beat  faster  and 
faster — this  lane,  that  field,  that  cottage.  And  then,  at  last,  there 
was  the  Vicarage  perched  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  with  its  chimneys 
like  cats'  ears! 

She  thought  of  Uncle  Mathew.  The  sight  of  the  tranquil  eve- 
ning, the  happiness  and  comfort  of  the  fields  enabled  her  to  think 
of  him,  for  the  first  time,  quietly.    She  could  face  deliberately  his 


452  THE  CAPTIVES 

death.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  waiting  for  her  here  and 
had  come  forward  to  reassure  her. 

They  drove  through  the  quiet  little  village,  out  on  to  the  high 
road,  then  down  a  side  lane,  the  hedges  brushing  against  the  sides 
of  the  jingle,  then  through  the  gates,  into  the  yard,  with  Borhedden 
Farm,  bright  with  its  lighted  windows,  waiting  for  them. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  was  standing  in  the  porch  and  greeted  them  warmly. 

"  You'll  be  just  starved,"  she  said.  "  It's  wisht  work  driving  in 
an  open  jingle  all  the  way  from  Clinton.  Supper's  just  about 
ready." 

They  were  shown  up  to  the  big  roomy  bedroom,  smelling  of 
candles  and  clover  and  lavender.  Martin  stood  there  looking  about, 
then 

"  Oh,  Martin,  isn't  it  nice ! "  Maggie  cried.  "  I  do  hope  you'll 
be  happy  here !  " 

The  emotion  of  returning  home,  of  seeing  the  old  places,  sniffing 
the  old  scents,  reviving  the  old  memories  was  too  much  for  her. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 
For  a  moment,  for  a  wonderful  moment  it  seemed  that  he  was 
going  to  respond.  She  felt  him  move  towards  her.  His  hands 
tightened  about  hers.  Then,  but  very  gently,  he  drew  away  from 
her  and  walked  to  the  window. 


CHAPTEK  III 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF   LIFE 

MAGGIE,  before  she  left  London,  had  written  both  to  Paul  and 
Mr.  Magnus  giving  them  her  new  address.  She  had  intended 
to  see  Magnus,  but  Martin's  illness  had  absorbed  her  so  deeply  that 
she  could  not  proceed  outside  it.  She  told  him  quite  frankly  that 
she  was  going  down  to  Glebeshire  with  Martin  and  that  she  would 
remain  with  him  there  until'  he  was  well.  She  did  not  try  to  de- 
fend herself;  she  did  not  argue  the  case  at  all;  she  simply  stated 
the  facts. 

Mr.  Magnus  wrote  to  her  at  once.  He  was  deeply  concerned,  he 
did  not  chide  her  for  what  she  had  done,  but  he  begged  her  to 
realise  her  position.  She  felt  through  every  line  of  his  letter  that 
he  disapproved  of  and  distrusted  Martin.  His  love  for  Maggie 
(and  she  felt  that  he  had  indeed  love  for  her)  made  him  look  on 
Martin  as  the  instigator  in  this  affair.  He  saw  Maggie,  igno- 
rant of  the  world,  led  away  by  a  seducer  from  her  married  life, 
persuaded  to  embark  upon  what  his  own  experience  had  taught  him 
to  be  a  dangerous,  lonely,  and  often  disastrous  voyage.  He  had 
never  heard  of  any  good  of  Martin;  he  had  been  always  in  his 
view,  idle,  dissolute,  and  selfish.  What  could  he  think  but  that 
Martin  had,  most  wickedly,  persuaded  her  to  abandon  her 
safety  ? 

She  answered  his  letter,  telling  him  in  the  greatest  detail  the 
truth.  She  told  him  that  Martin  had  done  all  he  could  to  refuse, 
that,  had  he  not  been  so  ill,  he  would  have  left  her,  that  he  had 
threatened  her,  again  and  again,  with  what  he  would  do  if  she  did 
not  leave  him. 

She  showed  him  that  it  had  been  her  own  determination  and 
absolute  resolve  that  had  created  the  situation — and  she  told  him 
that  she  was  happy  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

But  his  letter  did  force  her  to  realise  the  difficulties  of  her 
position.  In  writing  to  Mrs.  Bolitho  she  had  spoken  of  herself  as 
Martin's  wife,  and  now  when  she  was  called  "  Mrs.  Warlock  "  she 
tacitly  accepted  that,  hating  the  deceit,  but  wishing  for  anything 
that  might  keep  the  situation  tranquil  and  undisturbed. 

She  asked  Mrs.  Bolitho  to  let  her  have  a  small  room  near  the 

453 


454  THE  CAPTIVES 

big  one,  telling  her  that  Martin  was  so  ill  that  he  must  be  undis- 
turbed at  night.  Then  Mr.  Magnus's  letter  arrived  addressed  to 
44  Miss  Cardinal,"  and  she  thought  that  Mrs.  Bolitho  looked  at  her 
oddly  when  she  gave  it  to  her.  Martin's  illness,  too,  seemed  to 
disturb  the  household.  He  cried  out  in  his  dreams,  his  shouts 
waking  the  whole  establishment.  Bolitho,  once,  thinking  that 
murder  was  being  committed,  went  to  his  room,  found  him  sitting 
up  in  bed,  sweating  with  terror.  He  caught  hold  of  Bolitho,  flung 
his  arms  around  him,  would  not  let  him  go,  urging  him  "  not  to 
help  them,  to  protect  him.  They  would  catch  him  .  .  .  they 
would  catch  him.    They  would  catch  him." 

The  stout  and  phlegmatic  farmer  was  himself  frightened,  sitting 
there  on  the  bed,  in  his  night-shirt,  and  "  seeing  ghosts "  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  candle.  Martin's  conduct  during  the  day 
was  not  reassuring.  He  had  lost  all  his  ferocity  and  bitterness; 
he  was  very  quiet,  speaking  to  no  one,  lying  on  a  sofa  that  over- 
looked the  moor,  watching. 

Mrs.  Bolitho's  really  soft  heart  was  touched  by  his  pallor  and 
weakness,  but  she  could  not  deny  that  "  there  was  something  queer 
here."  Maggie  almost  wished  that  his  old  mood  of  truculence 
would  return.  She  was  terrified,  too,  of  these  night  scenes,  because 
they  were  so  bad  for  his  heart.  The  local  doctor,  a  clever  young 
fellow  called  Stephens,  told  her  that  he  was  recovering  from  the 
pneumonia,  but  that  his  heart  was  "  dickey." 

"  Mustn't  let  anything  excite  him,  Mrs.  Warlock,"  he 
said. 

There  came  then  gradually  over  the  old  house  and  the  village  the 
belief  that  Martin  was  "  fey."  Mrs.  Bolitho  was  in  most  ways  a 
sensible,  level-headed,  practical  woman,  but  like  many  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Glebeshire,  she  was  deeply  superstitious.  It  was  not 
so  very  many  years  since  old  Jane  Curtis  had  been  ducked  in  the 
St.  Dreot's  pond  for  a  witch,  and  even  now,  did  a  cow  fall  sick  or 
the  lambs  die,  the  involuntary  thought  in  the  Glebeshire  a  pagan 
mind  "  was  to  look  for  the  "  evil  eye."  But  Mrs.  Bolitho  herself 
had  had  a  very  recent  example  in  her  own  family  of  u  possession." 
There  had  been  her  old  grandfather,  living  in  the  farm  with  them, 
as  hale  and  hearty  a  human  of  sixty-five  years  as  you'd  be  likely  to 
find  in  a  day's  march  through  Glebeshire.  "  He  lost  touch  with 
them,"  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  put  it.  In  a  night  his  colour  failed  him, 
his  cheerful  conversation  left  him,  he  could  "  do  nought  but  sit  and 
stare  out  o'  window."    A  month  later  he  died. 

Martin  had  not  been  long  at  Borhedden  before  she  came  to  her 
conclusions  about  him,  told  them  to  her  James,  and  found  that 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  455 

his  slow  but  sure  brains  had  come  to  the  same  decision.  In  the 
sense  of  the  tragedy  overhanging  the  poor  young  man  she  forgot 
to  consider  the  possible  impropriety  of  his  relations  with  Maggie. 
He  was  removed  at  once  from  human  laws  and  human  judgment. 
He  became  "  a  creature  of  God  "  and  was  surrounded  with  some- 
thing of  the  care  and  reverence  with  which  the  principal  "  softie  " 
in  the  village  was  regarded. 

It  was  not  that  Martin's  behaviour  was  in  any  way  odd.  After 
a  few  days  in  the  utter  peace  and  quiet  of  the  moor  and  farm  he 
screamed  no  more  at  night.  He  was  gentle  and  polite  to  every 
one,  ate  his  meals,  took  little  walks  out  on  to  the  moor  and  into 
the  village,  but  liked  best  to  sit  in  front  of  the  parlour  window 
and  look  out  on  to  the  heath  and  grass,  watching  the  shadows  and 
the  sunlight  and  the  driving  sheets  of  rain. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  had  a  tender  heart  and  Maggie  shared  in  her  super- 
stitious pity.  Looking  back  to  her  youth  she  had  always  thought 
Maggie  a  "  wisht  little  thing."  "  Poor  worm,"  what  chance  had  she 
ever  had  with  that  great  scandalous  chap  of  a  father?  She  saw 
her  still  in  her  shabby  clothes  trying  to  keep  that  dilapidated 
house  together.  No,  what  chance  had  she  ever  had?  She  was 
still  a  "  wisht  little  thing." 

Nor  did  it  need  very  shrewd  eyes  to  see  how  desperately  devoted 
Maggie  was  to  Martin.  The  sight  of  that  touched  the  hearts  of 
every  human  being  in  the  farm.  Not  that  Maggie  was  foolish; 
she  did  not  hang  about  Martin  all  the  time,  she  never,  so  far  as 
Mrs.  Bolitho  could  see,  kissed  him  or  fondled  him,  or  was  with  him 
when  he  did  not  want  her.  She  was  not  sentimental  to  him,  not 
sighing  nor  groaning,  nor  pestering  him  to  answer  romantic  ques- 
tions. On  the  contrary,  she  was  always  cheerful,  practical,  and  full 
of  common  sense,  although  she  was  sometimes  forgetful,  and  was 
not  so  neat  and  tidy  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  would  have  wished.  She  al- 
ways spoke  as  though  Martin's  recovery  were  quite  certain,  and 
Dr.  Stephens  told  Mrs.  Bolitho  that  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
the  truth  to  her.  "  The  chances  against  his  recovery,"  Stephens 
said,  "  are  about  one  in  a  hundred.  He's  been  racketing  about 
too  long.  Too  much  drink.  But  he's  got  something  on  his  mind. 
That's  really  what's  the  matter  with  him." 

Mrs.  Bolitho  was  as  naturally  inquisitive  as  are  most  of  her 
sex.  and  this  knowledge  that  Martin  was  a  doomed  creature  with 
a  guilty  conscience  vastly  excited  her  curiosity.  What  had  the 
man  done?  What  had  been  his  relations  with  Maggie?  Above  all, 
did  he  really  care  for  Maggie,  or  no?  That  was  finally  the  ques- 
tion that  was  most  eagerly  discussed  in  the  depths  of  the  Bolitho 


456  THE  CAPTIVES 

bedchamber.  James  Bolitho  maintained  that  he  didn't  care  "  that " 
for  her;  you  could  see  plain  enough,  he  asserted,  when  a  man  cared 
for  a  maid — there  were  signs,  sure  and  certain,  just  as  there  were 
with  cows  and  horses. 

"  You  may  know  about  cows  and  horses,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho ; 
"  you're  wrong  about  humans."  The  way  that  she  put  it  was  that 
Martin  cared  for  Maggie  but  "  couldn't  get  it  out."  "  He  doesn't 
want  her  to  know  it,"  she  said. 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  "  asked  James. 

"  Now  you're  asking,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho. 

"Nice  kind  of  courtin'  that  be,"  said  James;  "good  thing  you 
was  a  bit  different,  missus.  Lovin'  a  lass  and  not  speaking — 
shouldn't  like!" 

Mrs.  Bolitho's  heart  grew  very  tender  towards  Maggie.  Mar- 
ried or  not,  the  child  was  in  a  "  fiery  passion  of  love."  Nor  was 
it  a  selfish  passion,  neither — wanted  very  little  for  herself,  but  only 
for  him  to  get  well.  There  was  true  romance  here.  Maggie,  how- 
ever, gave  away  no  secrets.  She  had  many  talks  with  Mr.  Bolitho : 
about  the  village,  about  the  new  parson,  about  Mrs.  Bolitho's  son, 
Jacob,  now  in  London  engineering,  and  the  apple  of  her  eye, — 
about  many  things  but  never  about  herself,  the  past  history  nor  her 
feeling  for  Martin. 

The  girl  never  u  let  on  "  that  she  was  suffering,  and  yet  "  suf- 
fering she  must  be."  You  could  see  that  she  was  just  holding 
herself  "  tight "  like  a  wire.  The  strange  intensity  of  her  de- 
termination was  beautiful  but  also  dangerous.    "  If  anything  was 

to  happen "  said  Mrs.  Bolitho.     She  saw  Martin,  too,  many 

times,  looking  at  Maggie  in  the  strangest  way,  as  though  he  were 
travelling  towards  some  decision.  He  certainly  was  a  good  young 
man  in  his  behaviour,  doing  now  exactly  what  he  was  told,  never 
angry,  never  complaining,  and  that,  Mrs.  Bolitho  thought,  was 
strange,  because  you  could  see  in  his  eye  that  he  had  a  will  and  a 
temper  of  his  own,  did  he  like  to  exercise  them.  After  all,  he  him- 
self was  the  merest  boy,  scarcely  older  than  Jacob.  She  could,  her- 
self, see  that  he  must  have  been  a  fine  enough  lad  when  he  had  his 
health — the  breadth  of  his  shoulders,  the  thick  sturdiness  of  his 
shape,  the  strength  of  his  thighs  and  arms.  Her  husband  had 
seen  the  boy  stripped,  and  had  told  her  that  he  must  have  been  a 
"  lovely  man."  Drink  and  evil  women — ay,  they'd  brought  him 
down  as  they'd  brought  many  another — and  she  thought  of  her 
Jacob  in  London  with  a  catch  at  her  heart.  She  stopped  in  her 
cooking  and  prayed  there  and  then,  upon  her  kitchen  floor,  that  he 
might  be  kept  safe  from  all  harm. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  457 

Nearly  every  one  in  the  village,  of  course,  remembered  Maggie, 
and  they  could  not  see  that  she  was  "  any  changed."  "  Cut  'er 
'air  short — London  fashion  "  they  supposed.  They  had  liked  her 
as  a  child  and  they  liked  her  now.  She  was  more  cheerful  and 
friendly,  they  thought,  then  she  used  to  be. 

Nevertheless  all  the  village  awaited,  with  deep  interest,  for  what 
they  felt  would  be  a  very  moving  climax.  The  young  man  was 
"  fey."  God  had  set  His  mark  upon  him,  and  nothing  that  any 
human  being  could  do  would  save  him.  In  old  days  they  would 
have  tried  to  come  near  him  and  touch  him  to  snatch  some  virtue 
from  the  contact.  They  did  not  do  that,  but  they  felt  when  they 
had  spoken  to  him  that  they  had  received  some  merit  or  ad- 
vantage. The  new  parson  came  to  call  upon  Martin  and  Maggie, 
but  he  got  very  little  from  his  visit. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  he  said  to  his  wife  on  his  return.  "  His  days 
are  numbered,  I  fear." 

To  every  one  it  was  as  though  Martin  and  Maggie  were  enclosed 
in  some  world  of  their  own.  No  one  could  come  near  them,  no 
one  could  tell  of  what  they  were  really  thinking,  of  their  hopes  or 
fears,  past  or  future. 

"  Only,"  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  said  to  her  husband,  "  one  thing's 
certain,  she  do  love  'im  with  all  her  heart  and  soul — poor 
lamb." 

When  Martin  and  Maggie  had  been  at  the  farm  about  a  fort- 
night, there  came  to  St.  Dreot's  a  travelling  circus.  This  was  a 
very  small  affair,  but  it  came  every  year,  and  provided  considerable 
excitement  for  the  village  population.  There  were  also  gipsies  who 
came  on  the  moor,  and  telling  the  fortunes  of  any  who  had  a  spare 
sixpence  with  which  to  cross  their  palms.  The  foreign  and  exotic 
colour  that  the  circus  and  the  gipsies  brought  into  the  village  was 
exactly  suited  to  the  St.  Dreot  blood.  Many  centuries  ago  strange 
galleys  had  forced  their  way  into  bays  and  creeks  of  the  southern 
coast,  and  soon  dark  strangers  had  penetrated  across  the  moors  and 
fields  and  had  mingled  with  the  natives  of  the  plain.  Scarcely  an 
inhabitant  of  St.  Dreot  but  had  some  dark  colour  in  his  blood,  a 
gift  from  those  Phoenician  adventurers;  scarcely  an  inhabitant 
but  was  conscious  from  time  to  time  of  other  strains,  more  tumul- 
tuous passions,  than  the  Saxon  race  could  show. 

This  coming  of  the  circus  had  in  it,  whether  they  knew  it  or 
no,  something  of  the  welcoming  of  their  own  people  back  to  them 
again.  They  liked  to  see  the  elephant  and  the  camel  tread  solemnly 
the  uneven  stones  of  the  village  street,  they  liked  to  hear  the  roar 
of  the  wild  beasts  at  night  when  they  were  safe  and  warm  in  their 


458  THE  CAPTIVES 

own  comfortable  beds,  they  liked  to  have  solemn  consultations  with 
the  gipsy  girls  as  to  their  mysterious  destinies.  The  animals,  in- 
deed, were  not  many  nor,  poor  things,  were  they,  after  many  years' 
chains  and  discipline,  very  fierce — nevertheless  they  roared  because 
they  knew  it  was  their  duty  so  to  do,  and  when  the  lion's  turn  came 
a  notice  was  hung  up  outside  his  cage  saying :  "  This  is  the  Lion 
that  last  year,  at  Clinton,  bit  Miss  Harper."  There  were  also  per- 
forming dogs,  a  bear,  and  two  seals. 

The  circus  was  quite  close  to  the  farm. 

"  I  do  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho  to  Martin,  "  that  the  roaring  of 
the  animals  won't  disturb  you." 

It  did  not  disturb  him.  He  seemed  to  like  it,  and  went  out 
and  stood  there  watching  all  the  labours  of  the  gipsies  and  the 
tent  men,  and  even  went  into  "  The  Green  Boar "  and  drank 
a  glass  of  beer  with  Mr.  Marquis,  the  proprietor  of  the  cir- 
cus. 

On  the  third  day  after  their  arrival  there  was  a  proper  Glebe- 
shire  mist.  It  was  a  day,  also,  of  freezing,  biting  cold,  such  a  day 
as  sometimes  comes  in  of  a  Glebeshire  May — cold  that  seems,  in 
its  damp  penetration,  more  piercing  than  any  frost. 

The  mist  came  rolling  up  over  the  moor  in  wreaths  and  spirals 
of  shadowy  grey,  sometimes  shot  with  a  queer  dull  light  as  though 
the  sun  was  fighting  behind  it  to  beat  a  way  through,  sometimes  so 
dense  and  thick  that  standing  at  the  door  of  the  farm  you  could 
not  see  your  hand  in  front  of  your  face.  It  was  cold  with  the 
chill  of  the  sea  foam,  mysterious  in  its  ever-changing  intricacies 
of  shape  and  form,  lifting  for  a  sudden  instant  and  showing  green 
grass  and  the  pale  spring  flowers  in  the  border  by  the  windows, 
then  charging  down  again  with  fold  on  fold  of  vapour  thicker  and 
thicker,  swaying  and  throbbing  with  a  purpose  and  meaning  of  its 
own.  Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Bolitho  took  a  peep  at  her 
lodgers.  She  did  not  intend  to  spy — she  was  an  honest  woman — 
but  she  shared  most  vividly  the  curiosity  of  all  the  village  about 
"  these  two  queer  ignorant  children,"  as  she  called  them.  Stand- 
ing in  the  bow-window  of  her  own  little  parlour  she  could  see 
the  bow-window  and  part  of  the  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house-door.  Maggie  and  Martin  stood  there  looking  out  into  the 
mist.  The  woman  could  see  Maggie's  face,  dim  though  the  light 
was,  and  a  certain  haunting  desire  in  it  tugged  at  Mrs.  Bolitho's 
tender  heart.  "  Poor  worm,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  she's  long- 
ing for  him  to  say  something  to  her  and  he  won't."  They  were 
talking.  Then  there  was  a  pause  and  Martin  turned  away.  Mag- 
gie's eyes  passionately  besought  him.     What  did  she  want  him 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  459 

to  do — to  say?  Mrs.  Bolitho  could  see  that  the  girl's  hands  were 
clenched,  as  though  she  had  reached,  at  last,  the  very  limits  of  her 
endurance.  He  did  not  see.  His  back  was  half  turned  to  her.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  stood  there  drumming  with  his  hands  on  the 
glass. 

"  Oh,  I  could  shake  him,"  thought  Mrs.  Bolitho's  impatience. 
For  a  time  Maggie  waited,  never  stirring,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  body 
taut. 

Then  she  seemed  suddenly  to  break,  as  though  the  moment  of 
endurance  was  past.  She  turned  sharply  round,  looking  directly 
out  of  her  window  into  Mrs.  Bolitho's  room — but  she  didn't  see 
Mrs.  Bolitho. 

That  good  woman  saw  her  smile,  a  strange  little  smile  of 
defiance,  pathos,  loneliness,  cheeriness  defeated.  She  vanished 
from  her  window  although  he  stood  there.  A  moment  later,  in 
a  coat  and  hat,  she  came  out  of  the  front  door,  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  mist  looking  about  her,  then  vanished  on 
to  the  moor. 

"  She  oughtn't  to  be  out  in  this,"  thought  the  farmer's  wife. 
"  It's  dangerous." 

She  waited  a  little,  then  came  and  knocked  on  the  door  of  the 
other  sitting-room.     She  met  Martin  in  the  doorway. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bolitho,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  I'd  go  to  the  circus  for 
half  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  she  said. 

He  too  disappeared.  She  sat  in  her  kitchen  all  the  afternoon 
busily  mending  the  undergarments  of  her  beloved  James.  But  her 
thought  were  not  with  her  husband.  She  could  not  get  the  picture 
of  those  two  young  things  standing  at  the  window  facing  the  mist- 
drunk  moor  out  of  her  head.  The  sense  that  had  come  to  the  farm 
with  Martin's  entry  into  it  of  something  eerie  and  foreboding  in- 
creased now  with  every  tick  of  the  heavy  kitchen  clock.  She 
seemed  to  listen  now  for  sounds  and  portents.  The  death-tick  on 
the  wall — was  that  foolish?  Some  men  said  so,  but  she  knew  bet- 
ter. Had  she  not  heard  it  on  the  very  night  of  her  grandfather's 
death?  She  sat  there  and  recounted  to  herself  every  ghost-story 
that,  in  the  course  of  a  long  life,  had  come  her  way.  The  headless 
horseman,  the  coach  with  the  dead  travellers,  the  three  pirates  and 
their  swaying  gibbets,  the  ghost  of  St.  Dreot's  churchyard,  the 
Wailing  Woman  of  Clinton,  and  many,  many  others,  all  passed  be- 
fore her,  making  pale  her  cheek  and  sending  her  heart  in  violent 
beats  up  and  down  the  scale. 

The  kitchen  grew  darker  and  darker.    She  let  the  underclothes 


460  THE  CAPTIVES 

lie  upon  her  lap.  Soon  she  must  light  the  lamp,  but  meanwhile, 
before  the  oven  she  let  her  fancies  overwhelm  her,  luxuriating  in 
her  terror. 

Suddenly  the  kitchen-door  was  flung  open.  She  started  up  with 
a  cry.  Martin  stood  there  and  in  a  voice,  so  new  to  her  that  she 
seemed  never  to  have  heard  it  before,  he  shouted,  "  Where's  Mag- 
gie?" 

She  stood  up  in  great  agitation.  He  came  towards  her  and  she 
saw  that  his  face  was  violent  with  agitation,  with  a  kind  of 
rage. 

"  Where's  Maggie  ?  "  he  repeated. 

She  saw  that  he  was  shaking  all  over  and  it  was  as  though  he 
did  not  know  who  she  was. 

"  Maggie  ? "  she  repeated. 

"  My  wife !  My  wife ! "  he  cried,  and  he  shouted  it  again  as 
though  he  were  proclaiming  some  fact  to  the  whole  world. 

"  She  went  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho,  "  about  three  hours  back 
I  should  think." 

''Went  out!"  he  stormed  at  her.    "And  in  this?" 

Then,  before  she  could  say  another  word,  he  was  gone.  It  was 
in  very  truth  like  an  apparition. 

She  sat  there  for  some  time  staring  in  front  of  her,  still  shaken 
by  the  violence  of  his  interruption.  She  went  then  to  the  kitchen- 
door  and  listened — not  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  went  farther, 
out  through  the  passage  to  the  hall-door.  She  opened  it  and  looked 
out.  A  sea  of  driving  mist,  billowing  and  driving  as  though  by 
some  internal  breeze,  met  her. 

"  Poor  things,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  They  shouldn't  be  out  in 
this."  She  shut  the  door  and  went  back  into  the  house.  She 
called,  "  Jim !  Jim !  Where  are  you  ? "  At  last  he  came,  stump- 
ing up  from  some  mysterious  labour  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house. 

"  What  is't  ? "  he  said,  startled  by  her  white  face  and  troubled 
eyes. 

"  The  two  of  them,"  she  said,  "  have  gone  out  on  to  the  moor 
in  this  mist.    It  isn't  safe." 

"  Whatever  for  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  She  went  out  first  and  now  he's  after 
her.    'Tisn't  safe,  Jim.    You'd  best  follow  them." 

He  didn't  argue  with  her,  being  an  obedient  husband  disciplined 
by  many  years  of  matrimony. 

"  Well,  I'll  go,"  he  said  slowly.    *  Best  take  William,  though." 

He  went  off  in  search  of  his  man. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  461 

But  Bolitho  need  not  trouble.  Half  an  hour  later  Maggie  re- 
turned, 9tood  in  the  sitting-room  looking  about  her,  took  off  her 
jacket  and  hat,  then,  pursuing  her  own  thoughts,  slowly  put  them 
on.  She  was  then  about  to  leave  the  room  when  the  door  burst 
open  and  Martin  tumbled  in.  He  stood  at  the  doorway  staring  at 
her,  his  mouth  open.  "  Why !  "  he  stammered.  *  I  thought  .  .  . 
I  thought    .    .   .    you  were  out " 

She  looked  at  him  crossly. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  gone  out — an  afternoon  like  this.  If  I'd 
been  here " 

"Well,  you  weren't.  You  shouldn't  have  gone  out  either  for 
the  matter  of  that.  And  I  was  at  the  circus — a  damned  poor  one 
too.  Your  things  are  soaking,"  he  added,  suddenly  looking  up  at 
her.    "  You  talk  about  me.    You'd  better  go  and  change." 

"I'm  going  out  again,"  she  said. 

"Out  again?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  There's  a  train  at  Clinton  at  seven.  I'm  catching 
that." 

"  A  train  ? "    He  stared  at  her,  completely  bewildered. 

"Yes.  That's  what  I  went  out  to  get  my  head  clear  about. 
Martin,  you've  beaten  me.  After  all  these  years  you  have.  After 
all  my  fine  speeches,  too." 

He  began  to  drum  on  the  window.  He  tried  to  speak  casu- 
ally. 

"  I  haven't  beaten  you,  Maggie/' 

"  Yes,  you  have.  I  said  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  send  me  away. 
Well,  you've  managed  to  and  in  the  only  way  you  could — by  your 
silence.  You  haven't  opened  your  mouth  for  a  fortnight.  You're 
better  now,  too,  and  Mrs.  Bolitho  will  look  after  you.  I  was  de- 
termined to  hang  on  to  you,  but  I  find  I  can't.  I'm  going  back 
to  London  to  get  some  work." 

His  hand  dropped  from  the  window.  Then,  with  his  head  turned 
from  her  and  his  voice  so  low  that  she  could  scarcely  hear  the 
words,  he  said: 

"  No,  Maggie,  don't  go." 

She  smiled  across  at  him.  "  There's  no  need  to  be  polite,  Martin. 
We're  both  of  us  beyond  that  by  this  time.  I'll  come  back  if  you 
really  want  me.  You  know  that  I  always  will,  but  at  last,  after 
all  these  years,  I've  found  a  scrap  of  self-respect.  Here  am  I  al- 
ways bundling  about — first  the  aunts,  then  you,  then  Paul,  then  you 
again,  and  nobody  wanting  me.  I  don't  suppose,"  she  said  laugh- 
ing, "  that  there  can  be  anybody  less  wanted  in  the  whole  world. 
So  I'm  just  going  to  look  after  myself  now.    It's  quite  time  I  did." 


462  THE  CAPTIVES 

"But  I  want  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  still  very  low. 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  lit  as  though  with  some  sudden  recogni- 
tion. 

"  If  you  really  mean  that,"  she  said,  "  say  it  again.  If  you 
don't  mean  it,  don't  humbug  me.  I  won't  be  humbugged  any 
more." 

"  I  haven't  humbugged  you — ever,"  he  answered.  "  You're  the 
only  person  I've  always  been  absolutely  straight  with.  I've  always, 
from  the  very  beginning,  told  you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
It's  more  true  than  ever  now.  I've  been  trying  ever  since  you 
came  back  to  me  in  London  to  get  you  to  leave  me.  But  it's  too 
late.  I  can't  fight  it  any  more.  ...  I  loved  you  all  the  time  I 
was  abroad.  I  oughtn't  to  have  written  to  you,  but  I  did.  I  came 
back  to  London  with  the  one  hope  of  seeing  you,  but  determined 
not  to. 

"I  loved  you  more  than  ever  when  you  came  into  my  lodging 
there,  but  I  was  sick  and  hadn't  any  money,  besides  all  my  other 
failings.  .  .  .  It's  the  only  decent  thing  I've  ever  really  tried 
to  do,  to  keep  you  away  from  me,  and  now  I've  failed  in  that. 
When  I  came  in  and  found  you  were  gone  this  afternoon  I  thought 
I'd  go  crazy. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  struggle  any  more.  If  you  go  away  I'll  follow 
you  wherever  you  go.  I  may  as  well  try  to  give  up  keeping  you 
out  of  it.    It's  like  keeping  myself  out  of  it." 

Slowly  she  took  her  hat  and  coat  of!  again. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  "  I'd  better  stay,  I  suppose." 

He  suddenly  sat  down,  his  face  white.  She  came  across  to  him. 
She  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  bed,  Martin,  dear.  I'll  bring  your  tea 
in." 

He  caught  her  hand.  She  knelt  down,  put  her  arms  round  him, 
and  so  they  stayed,  cheek  to  cheek,  for  a  long  time. 

When  he  had  gone  to  his  room  she  sat  in  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  her  hands  idly  folded  on  her  lap.  She  let  happiness  pour  in 
upon  her  as  water  floods  in  upon  a  dried  and  sultry  river-bed.  She 
was  passive,  her  tranquillity  was  rich  and  full,  too  full  for  any 
outward  expression. 

She  was  so  happy  that  her  heart  was  weighted  down  and  seemed 
scarcely  to  beat.  It  was  not,  perhaps,  the  exultant  happiness  that 
she  had  expected  this  moment  to  bring  her. 

When,  in  after  days,  she  looked  back  to  that  quiet  half-hour  by 
the  fire  she  saw  that  it  was  then  that  she  had  passed  from  girlhood 
into  womanhood.     The  first  chapter  of  her  life  was,  at  that  mo- 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  463 

ment's  laying  of  her  hand  on  Martin's  forehead,  closed.  The  love 
for  him  that  filled  her  so  utterly  was  in  great  part  maternal.  It  was 
to  be  her  destiny  to  know  the  deep  tranquil  emotions  of  life 
rather  than  the  passionate  and  transient.  She  was  perhaps  the 
more  blessed  in  that. 

Even  now,  at  the  very  instant  of  her  triumph,  she  deceived  her- 
self in  nothing.  There  were  many  difficulties  ahead  for  her.  She 
had  still  to  deal  with  Paul:  Martin  was  not  a  perfect  character, 
nor  would  he  suddenly  become  one.  Above  all  that  strange  sense 
of  being  a  captive  in  a  world  that  did  not  understand  her,  some 
one  curious  and  odd  and  alien — that  would  not  desert  her.  That 
also  was  true  of  Martin.  It  was  true — strangely  true — of  so  many 
of  the  people  she  had  known — of  the  aunts,  Uncle  Mathew,  Mr. 
Magnus,  of  Paul  and  of  Grace,  of  Mr.  Toms,  and  even  perhaps  of 
Thurston  and  Amy  Warlock — all  captives  in  a  strange  country, 
trying  to  find  the  escape,  each  in  his  or  her  own  fashion,  back 
to  the  land  of  their  birth. 

But  the  land  was  there.  Just  as  the  lion,  whose  roar  very  faintly 
she  could  hear  through  the  thick  walls,  remembered  in  his  cage 
the  jungles  and  mountains  of  his  happiness,  so  was  she  aware 
of  hers.  The  land  was  there,  the  fight  to  get  back  to  it  was 
real. 

She  smiled  to  herself,  looking  back  on  the  years.  Many  people 
would  have  said  that  she  had  had  no  very  happy  time  since  that 
sudden  moment  of  her  father's  death,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
her,  in  retrospect,  unhappy.  There  had  been  unhappy  times,  tragic 
times,  but  life  was  always  bringing  forward  some  magnificent  mo- 
ment, some  sudden  flash  of  splendour  that  made  up  for  all  the  rest. 
How  could  you  be  bitter  about  people  when  you  were  all  in  the 
same  box,  all  as  ignorant,  as  blind,  as  eager  to  do  well,  as  fallible,  as 
brave,  as  mistaken  ? 

The  thoughts  slipped  dimly  through  her  mind.  She  was  too 
happy  to  trace  them  truly.  She  had  never  been  one  for  conscious 
philosophy. 

Nevertheless  she  did  not  doubt  but  that  life  was  worth  while, 
that  there  was  something  immortal  in  her,  and  that  the  battle  was 
good  to  fight — but  what  it  really  came  to  was  that  she  loved 
Martin,  and  that  at  last  some  one  needed  her,  that  she  need 
never  be  lonely  any  more. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  stepped  in  with  the  tea. 

"  I'll  take  it  in  to  him,"  Maggie  said,  standing  up  and  stretching 
out  hor  arms  for  the  tray. 

The  woman  looked  at  her  and  gave  a  little  "  Ah ! "  of  satisfac- 


464  THE  CAPTIVES 

tion,  as  though,  at  length,  she  saw  in  Maggie's  eyes  that  for  which 

she  had  been  searching. 
"  Why,  I  do  believe,"  she  said,  "  that  walk's  done  'ee  good." 
"  I  do  believe,"  Maggie  said,  laughing,  "  it  has." 
Carrying  the  tray  carefully  she  went  through  into  Martin's  room. 


Polperro,  Jan.,  1916. 
Polperro,  May,  1920. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


k\  27 '66 

APR  2  180  14  DAY 
2  3  APR'80  RECQi: 


Book  Slip-25m-7,'61(C1437s4)4280 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001 


193  443     7 


College 
Library 

PR 

6045 

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1920 


UCLA-College  Library 

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L  005  769  282  4 

